looking at Letitia, but kept his eyes upon a ring of keys with which he played nervously; and now when he spoke it was more spasmodically, as if reluctant to broach some matter for which, however, he felt the time had come. "Yes, he's a good hand at it. Used to be even better than he is now—but that's natural. I wish, though—you'd just suggest when it comes handy—just in a quiet sort of way, you know—some day when you get the chance—that he's getting just a leetle bit—you can say it better than I can—but I mean long-winded for the Gazette. It's natural, of course, but you see—you see, Miss Primrose, if we print one long-winded piece, you know—you can see for yourself—why, every other poet in Grassy Ford starts firing epics at us, which is natural, of course, but—hard on me. And if I refuse 'em, why, then, they just naturally up and say, 'Well, you printed Primrose's; why not mine?' and there they have you—there they have you right by the—yes, sir, there they have you; and there's the devil to pay. Like as not they get mad then and stop their papers, which they don't pay for—and that's natural, too, only it causes feeling and doesn't do me any good, or your father either."

"But, Mr. Butters, you printed Mr. Banks's letter on carrots, and that was—"

The editor fairly leaped in his chair.

"There, you have it!" he cried. "Just what I said! There's that confounded letter of Jim Banks's, column-long on carrots, a-staring me in the face from now till kingdom come when any other idiot wants to print something a column long. Just what I say, Miss Primrose; but you must remember that the readers of the Gazette do raise carrots, and they don't raise—well, now, for instance, and not to be mean or personal at all, Miss Primrose—not at all—they don't raise Agamemnons or Theocrituses. I suppose I should say Theocriti—singular, Theocritus; plural, Theocriti. No, sir, they don't raise Theocriti—which is natural, of course, and reminds me—while we are on the subject—reminds me, Miss Primrose, that I've been thinking—or wondering—in fact, I've been going to ask you for some time back, only I never just got the chance—ask you if you wouldn't—just kind of speak to your father, to kind of induce him, you know, to—to write on—about—well, about livelier things. You see, Miss Primrose, it's natural, of course, for scholars to write about things that are dead and gone. They wouldn't be scholars if they wrote what other people knew about. That's only natural. Still—still, Miss Primrose, if the old gentleman could just give us a poem or two on the—well, the issues of the day, you know—oh, he's a good writer, Miss Primrose! Mind, I'm not saying a word—not a word—against that. I'd be the last—Good God, what's the matter, girl! What have I done? Oh, I say now, that's too bad—that's too bad, girlie. Come, don't do that—don't—Why, if I'd a-known—"

Letitia, "Jerusalem" crushed in her right hand, had buried her face among the proof-sheets on his desk. Woolier than ever in his bewilderment, the editor rose—sat—rose again—patted gingerly (he had never had a daughter), patted Letitia's shaking shoulders and strove to soothe her with the only words at his command: "Oh, now, I say—I—why, say, if I'd a-known"—till Letitia raised her dripping face.

"You m-mustn't mind, Mr. B-Butters," she said, smiling through her tears.

"Why, say, Miss Primrose, if I'd a-dreamed—"

"It's all my f-fault, Mr. B-Butters."

"Damn it, no! It's mine. It's mine, I tell you. I might a-known you'd think I was criticising your father."

"Oh, it's not that exactly, Mr. Butters, but you see—"

She put her hair out of her eyes and smoothed the manuscript.

"Egad! I see; you had one of the old gentleman's—"

Letitia nodded.

"Egad!" he cried again. "Let's see, Miss Primrose."

"Oh, there isn't the slightest use," she said. "It's too long, Mr. Butters."

"No, no. Let's have a look at it."

"No," she answered. "No, it's altogether too long, Mr. Butters."

"But let's have a look at it."

She hesitated. His hand was waiting; but she shook her head.

"No. It's the longest poem he ever wrote, Mr. Butters. It's his masterpiece."

"By George! let's see it, then. Let's see it."

"Why, it's as long, Mr. Butters—it's as long as 'Lycidas.'"

"Long as—hm!" he replied. "Still—still, Miss Primrose," he added, cheerfully, "that isn't so long when you come to think of it."

"But that's not all," Letitia said. "It's about—it's called—oh, you'll never print it, Mr. Butters!"

She rose with the poem in her hand.

"Print it!" cried Butters. "Why, of course I'll print it. I'll print it if every cussed poet in Grassy—"

"Oh, will you, Mr. Butters?"

"Will I? Of course I will."

He took it from her unresisting fingers.

"Je-ru-sa-lem!" he cried, fluttering the twenty pages.

"Yes," she said, "that's—that's the name of it, Mr. Butters," and straightway set herself to rights again.

IV

THE SEVENTH SLICE

I

t was the editor himself who told me the story years afterwards—Butters of "The Pide Bull," as he ever afterwards called his shop, for in her gratitude Letitia had pointed out to him how natural it was that he of all men should be the patron of poets, since beyond a doubt, she averred, he was descended from that very Nathaniel Butter for whom was printed the first quarto edition of King Lear. Indeed, with the proofs of "Jerusalem" she brought him the doctor's Shakespeare, and showed him in the preface to the tragedy the record of an antique title-page bearing these very words:

"Printed for Nathaniel Butter, and are to be sold at his shop in Paul's Churchyard at the signe of the Pide Bull neere St. Austin's Gate, 1608."

"Egad!" said Butters, "I never heard that before. Well, well, well, well."

"I think there is no doubt, Mr. Butters," said Letitia, "that he was your ancestor."

"You don't say so," mumbled the delighted editor. "Shouldn't wonder. Shouldn't wonder now at all. I believe there was an 's' tacked on our name, some time or other, now that I come to think of it, and printer's ink always did run in the Butters blood, by George!"

He even meditated hanging up a sign with a pied bull upon it—or so he said—but rejected the plan as too Old English for Grassy Ford. He never ceased, however, to refer to "my old cousin—Shakespeare's publisher, you know," and in the occasional dramatic criticisms that embellished the columns of the Gazette, all plays presented at our Grand Opera-House in the Odd Fellow's Block were compared, somehow, willy-nilly, to King Lear.

Butters of "The Pide Bull," I say, first told me how that young Crusader with the tear-wet face had delivered "Jerusalem," saving it from the stern fate which had awaited it and setting it proudly among the immortal "Gems." Then I sought Letitia, whose briefer, more reluctant version filled in wide chinks in the Butters narrative, while my knowledge of them both, of their modesty and their tender-heartedness, filled in the others, making the tale complete.

I was too young when the poet wrote his masterpiece to know or care about it, or how it found its way