Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1894-05-10

proceed to inscribe my name in my lar
gest, manifest chirography. Idry it care
fully and return to the reception room.
"Oh, how very kind in your my Wis
| itor gushes again Il shall prize it as
long as livel Are you his sister,
l shake my head.
''Oh, not his-wife:''
fancy CONSERVATION in the sweet,
shrill, girlish voice. Evidently the fact
Of ''better half would forever obscure
the fame of the popular writer.
Again I shake my head
''Vere st. Albans is not married."
return, and the violet eyes dance with
delight. She is pleased and does not at
tempt to conceal it.
/ II am his nearest FRIEND added ex-
planatorily, nearer to him than any one
else."
And then bow her out and go back
to my work. But all day long l am Wis
tied by thoughts of the pretty college
! girl, and fall to wondering if Brother
Tom paid his wager like man of honor.
The next day We're St. Albans" re-
ceives cards of invitation to several af-
fairs. The envelopes are all addressed
to Mr.. We're St. Albans, and gradually it
dawns upon me that I am universally
believed to be Of the masculine gender.
It is amusing and provoking, but the
situation has its compensations. l de-
cline every invitation in We're St. Albans'
name and feel almost like an impostor
as do so.
Day after day am besieged by callers
who demand to look upon the face of the
mysterious st. Albans OF course re-
fuse everybody. double Abby's wages
and station her in the small entrance
hall, with orders to admit no one re-
ceive letters from my publishers re-
preaching me with my seclusion.
'sDon't be hermit my dear fellow"
says one of the letters from the august
head Of the house; H'a little society will
freshen you up, and besides you have
really made hit in that last article, and
people are desirous of meeting you. My
son, whom we have just admitted to the
firm, is very anxious to meet you"
And SO on until l feel the blood grow
cold within my veins at thought of pos
sible complications.
Can 1 always preserve my incognita?
Will they not besiege my den and ferret
the truth and me-out Of it together? 1t
comes at last. One bright winter morn
ing Abby ushers into my presence a port
ly looking old gentleman, and with him
a man of some 80 years, tall, dark, hand
some-just such face as 1 love to por-
tray as the faces of my heroes.
II beg your pardonw
Mr.. Atherton falls back, overcome
with surprise.
''The servant showed us in here. We
are desirous of meeting Mr. We're st.
Albans. We are of the publishing firm
of Atherton & Sons. l wish to see Mr..
St. Albans in regard to some especial
work. Will you kindly request him to
give us audience?
feel my face growing red-redder-
reddest. rise from my chair and mo-
ton them to be seated near. Iopen my
mouth to blurt forth the whole truth,
but some perverse imp seizes my tongue,
and instead falter:
'.You cannot see We're st. Albans to-
day, gentlemen. He-is indisposed. p
So he is, indeed, indisposed to receive
visitors.
''You are Mrs. We're st. Albans, pre-
sume," he observes. And I-oh, depths
of infanyl | am SO embarrassed, so
overwhelmed with embarrassment un-
der the cool, steady gaze Of the younger
man that bow and mntter something
which sounds strangely like s'Yes."
At that moment there is curious bus
tie within the fiat where my little home
is situated. An uproar all at once, and
in rushes Abby, wild and disheveled,
and clings to my arm like a mad crea-
ture.
"Oh, Miss We're! Miss VereY' she
shrieks, '.the house is on fire! Come, let
US get away, or we shall be burned
aliver'
1t is all true. The fire has been burn
ing so long unsuspected that now it
breaks out with irresistible force, and
soon the whole building is in flames,
But long before then we are quite safe.
My two visitors bear my desk down
stairs between them, and while the elder
man keeps watch and ward over it out
side upon the street the younger returns
to me.
"We must get your husband out" he
says eagerly. "Show me his room, and
I will do my best to save hinr'
'My husbandr' | falter feebly. "Why,
l have no husbandr'
'.Then who is We're st. Albans?"
81 aml'
So the truth is told, and somehow
feel better.
When we are all safe on terra frna,
my new friend turns to me and says in
a low tone:
my name is Tom Atherton. My
young sister called to obtain We're St.
Albans autograph. She is more than
half in love with the unknown and mys-
terious We're. shall take pleasure in
undeceiving her."
Then after long pause, during which
he studies my shamed face attentively,
he adds:
'And am quite in love with We're St.
Albans. I have known that writer for
months through her manuscripts. Tell
me, is there any hope for meS''
What can l say but murmur some
thing about short acquaintance and all
the rest of the conventional excuses that
flock through my brain. But time does
away with the first excuse, since he pro-
ceeds henceforth to devote himself to
cultivating my acquaintance, and the
others he puts aside as he would shad-
ow.
So one day Tom takes me to his home,
and am duly presented as his betrothed
wife in propria persona. - New York
Weekly.
Hired to Think.
Cholles dn the Softly club)-Ah you a
Wepublican or Democwat?
Fwedewick-Ash me man Jeames. He
attends to all that sort of thing foh me.