"I PRESSED THEM TO MY LIPS."

I was very lonesome for a few weeks after my return. This it was that took me so often to the house occupied by the Bartons. Tom was immensely glad to see me, at all times, and Statia, though still very sober in my society, began to treat me with her old kindness.

One day, when Hazen was out of jail, and undoubtedly far away from the city, I asked Statia if she would like to hear a diary of my journey to the West Indies. She hesitated a little, saying finally that her answer would depend a great deal on what the diary contained. I told her how I had put the entire affair, from the beginning, into shape for publication and what I wanted was her opinion of my scheme. While there were many things that might not reflect great credit on me, there was nothing, I believed, that it would be improper for her to hear. She thought a little longer and then asked if she might not read it for herself instead of having it read to her. I accepted the amendment, being in fact glad she suggested it, and brought Miss May's MS. to her the very next morning.

When a couple of days had passed Tom dropped in to say that his sister would like to see me, if I found it convenient to run over. In another hour I was in her presence. She met me with a frown on her pretty face and stood for a minute regarding me silently.

"Don, have you told the whole truth in that manuscript?" she asked, then.

"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me!" I responded with upraised hand.

"It is an awful avowal, take it altogether," she said, soberly. "I almost wish you had not brought it to me. I never shall feel quite the same after this. How could a woman of that description so affect a man like you?"

"I am not going to discuss that," I answered. "Is it worth publishing, that's the point? I have altered every name, you see, so no one not in the secret will recognize a single person involved. It's a rather unusual collection of occurrences, don't you think?"

She assented with a nod to the last proposition, and said as for the literary "market" she supposed in its present state it was not over squeamish.

"The success of the season is 'Quo Vadis,'" she added, "and I wasn't able to read half of it. There is at least a lesson to be learned from this experience of yours, if men will only heed the warnings."

"Thank you," I said, with polite irony, though I didn't agree with her about Sienkiewicz' great work. "Can you think of anything I might add, to round out the tale, as it were?"

A flush came into her face and a slight smile to the corners of her mouth.

"Yes. You might say that 'Statia' admitted to you afterwards that the letters signed 'Alice Brazier' were her own, copied by a friend in the handwriting of the latter and sent from her residence."

My surprise, which was complete, turned the smile into a little laugh at my expense.

"And you might say also," she continued, "that during your absence with 'Marjorie,' your friend 'Tom's' sister was taking lessons in typewriting and became quite proficient in that art. And that she told you, whenever you wanted to take another journey, and needed assistance in literary work, she would apply for the position rather than have you made the victim of any designing creature of her sex."

"Statia!" I cried, "you have entirely forgiven me?"

"Entirely," she said. "I couldn't wish you any greater punishment than you have endured."

A month passed and one day a box addressed to me was brought to my door by an expressman, with the charges prepaid from some point beyond the Rockies. Wonderingly I saw it opened and then, at the first glance into the interior, I told the boy who plied the hammer that I would unpack it myself.

It contained the entire outfit that "Marjorie" had bought with my money—the jewelry included.

There were the hats which had adorned her fair head; the gowns that had been draped around her graceful body; the shoes, the hosiery, the lingerie—everything!

I took them out slowly, one by one. I pressed them to my lips, letting teardrops fall on each separate article. I could only think of what I had lost—of what, in truth, I had never gained. I put the articles away, finally, locking them securely from all prying eyes.

This little note was found in the box, pinned to a scarf:

Recovered from my love for you? Not yet, Marjorie, not yet. That will come in time, I trust, but it is still too soon.

Offer my hand to Statia? I would not insult that noble girl again with such a worthless gift. As for my heart, it has not come back to me, and I do not know as it ever will.

"Well," said Mr. Cook, the senior partner of the Dillingham Company, as I signed the contract which gave him the right to publish this "novel,"—"you've had what the doctor prescribed, at least."

"A New Sensation," he explained, as I looked at him inquiringly.

THE END.

SPECIAL NOTE: If this should meet the eyes of Mr. Mathew Howes of Binghamton, or Miss Howes, they are hereby informed that a diamond bracelet is awaiting its owner at The Lambs Club. D.C.