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* X DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. year.. Speedily a second edition was called for; then, after a brief interval, a third edition—this time a rational one-volutne a&air: and the whole lot—6,0001 believe—went off on the day of pub lication. Derrick was amazed; but he enjoyed his success very heartily, and I think no one could say that he had leaped into fame at a bound. Having devoured “ At Strife,” people began to discover the merits of “ Lynwood’s Heritage th6 libraries were besieged for it, and a cheap edition was hastily published, and another and another, till the book, which at first had been •uch a dead failure, rivaled “ At Strife.” Truly an author’s career is a curious thing; and pre cisely why the first book failed, and the second succeeded, no one could explain. It amused me very much to see Derrick turned into a lion; he was so essentially un-lionlike. Peoplo were forever asking him how he worked, and I remember a very pretty girl setting upon him once at a dinner-party with the embarrass ing request: “ Now do tell me, Mr. Vaughan, how do you write your stories ? I wish you would give me a good receipt for a novel.” Derrick hesitated uneasily for a minute; final ly, with a humorous smile, said: * “ Well, I can’t exactly tell you, because, more or less, novels grow; but if you want a receipt, you might perhaps try after this fashion: Con ceive your nero, add a sprinkling of friends and relatives, flavor with whatever scenery or local color you please, carefully consider what cir cumstances are most likely to develop your man into the best he is capable of, allow tne whole to simmer in your brain as long as you can, and then serve, while hot. with ink upon white or blue foolscap, according to taste.” The young lady applauded the receipt, but she sighed a little, and probably relinquished all hope of concocting a novel herself; on the whole, it seemed to involve incessant taking of troublo. About this time I remember, too, another lit tle scene, which I enjoyed amazingly. I laugh now when I think of it I happened to be at a huge evening crush, and, rather to my surprise, came across Lawrence Vaughan. We were talk ing together, when up came Gonnington, of the Foreign Office. “I say, Vaughan,” he said, “Lora Remington wishes to be introduced to you.” I watched the old statesman a little curi ously as he greeted Lawrence, and listened to his first words: “Very glad to make your ac quaintance, Captain Vaughan; I understand that the author of that grand novel, ‘ At Strife,’ is a brother of yours. And poor' Lawrence spent a mauvais quart dheure, inwardly fuming, I know, at the idea that he, the hero of Saspa- pataras Hill, should be considered merely as “ the brother of Vaughan, the novelist.” Fate, or perhaps I should say the effect of his own pernicious actions, did not deal kindly just now with Lawrence. Somehow Freda learned about that will, and, being no bread-and-butter miss, content meekly to adore her fiance and deem him faultless, she “ up and spake ” on the subject, and I fancy poor Lawrence must have had another maueais quart d'heure. It was not this, however, which led to a final breach be tween them; it was something whioh Sir Rich ard discovered with regard to Lawrence’s life at Dover. The engagement was instantly broken off, and Freds, I am sure, felt nothing but re lief. She went abroad for some time, however, and we did not see her till long after Lawrence had been married to £1,500 a year and a middle- aged widow who bad long been a hero-worship er, and who, I am told, never allowed any visitor to leave the house without making some allu sion to the memorable battle of Saspataras Hill and her Lawrence’s gallant action. For the two years following after the major’s death, Derrick and L as mentioned before, shared the rooms in Montague Street. For me, owing to the trouble I spoke they were years of maddening suspense and pain; bnt what pleasure I did manage to enjoy came entirely through the success of mv friend’s books ana from his companionship. It was odd that from the care of his father he should immediately pass on to the care of one who had made such a disastrous mistake as I had made. But I feel the less compunction at the thought of the amount of sympathy I called for at that time, because I notice that the giving of sympathy it a necessity for Derrick, and that when the trou bles of other folks do not immediately thrust themselves into bis life, he carefully htints them tip. During these two years he was reading for the Bar—not that he ever expected to do very much as a barrister, but he thought it well to have something to fall back on, and de clared that the drudgery of reading -would do him good. He was also writing as usual, and he used to spend two evenings a week at White chapel, where he taught one of the classes in collection with Toynbee Hall, and where he gained that knowledge of East End life which is conspicuow in his third book—“ Dick Carew.” This, with an ever-increasing and otten very burdensome correspondence, brought to him by his books, and with a fair share of dinners, " At Homes,” and so forth, made his life a full one. In a quiet sort of way I believe he was happy during this time. But later on, when, my trouble at an end, I had migrated to a house or my own, and he was left alone in the Mon tague Street rooms, his spirits somehow flagged. Fame is, after all, a hollow, unsatisfying thing to a man of his nature. He heartily enjoyed his success, he delighted in hearing that his books had given pleasure or had been of use to any one, but no public victory could in the least make up to him for the loss he had suffered in his private life; indeed, I almost think there were times when his triumphs as an author seemed to him utterly worthless—days of de pression, when the congratulations of us friends were nothing but a mockery. He had gained a striking success, it is true, but he had lost Fre da : he was in the position of the starving man who has received a gift of bonbons, but so craves for bread that they half sicken him. I used now and then to watch his face when, as often happened, some one said: “What au en viable fellow you are, Vaughan, to get on like this 1” or, “ What wouldn’t I give to exchange places with you!” He would invariablysmile and turn the conversation; but there was a look in his eyes at such times that I hated to see—it always made mo think of Mrs. Browning’s poem, “ The Mask”— “Behind no prison-grate, she said. Which slurs the sunshine half a mile. Live captives so uncontrolled As souls behind a smile.” As to the Merrifields, there was no chance of seeing them, for Sir Richard had gone to India in some official capacity, and no doubt, as every one said, they would take good care to marry Freda out there. Derrick nad not seen her since that trying February at Bath, long ag Vet I fancy she was never out of his thoughts. And so the years rolled on, and Derrick work ed away steadily, giving his books to the world, accepting the comforts and discomforts of an author’s life, laughing at the outrageous reports that wero in circulation about him, yet occasion ally, I think, inwardly wincing at them, and learning from the number of begging letters which he received, and into which he usually caused searching inquiry to be made, that there are in the world a vast number of undeserving poor. One day I happened to meet Lady-Probyn at a garden-party; it was at the same house on Campden Hill where I had once met Freda, and perhaps it was the recollection of this which prompted me to inquire after her. “8he has not been well,” said Lady Probyn, “ and they are sending her back to England; the climate doesn’t suit her. She is to make her home with us for the present, so I am the gainer. Freda has always been my favorite niece, I don’t know what it is about her that is so tak ing : she is not half so pretty as the others. 1 “But so much more charming,” I said, wonder she has not married out in India, as every one prophesied.” “And-so do I,” said her aunt "However, poor child, no doubt, after having been two years engaged to that very disappointing hero of Saspataras Hill, she will be shy of venturing to trust any one again.” “Do you think that affair ever went very deep ?” I ventured to ask. “ It seemed to me that she looked miserable during her engage ment, and happy when it was broken off” “Quite so, said Lady Probyn; “I noticed the same thing. It was nothing but a mistake. They were not in the least suited to each other. By the bye, I hear that Derrick Vaughan is married." “Derrick?” I exclaimed; "oh, no, that is a mistake. It is merely one of the hundred and one reports that are forever being set afloat about him.” aHk 3V “ But I saw it in a paper, I assure you,” said Lady Probyn, by no means oonvinced. “ Ah, that may very well be; they were hard up for a paragraph, no doubt, and inserted it. But, as for Derrick, why, how should be marry ? He has been madly in love with Miss Merrifimd ever since our cruise in the * Aurora.’ ” Lady Probyn made an inarticulate^exslama- tioru “Poor fellow!” she said, after a minute’s LOMht; “ that explains much to me.” She did not explain her rather ambiguous remark, and before long our tete-a-tete was interrupted. Now that my friend was a full-fledged barris ter, he and I shared chambers; and one morn ing about a month after this garden party. Derrick came in with face of such radiant happi ness that I couldn't imagine what good luck had befallen him. What do you think I” he exclaimed; “ here’s au invitation for a cruise in the * Aurora’ at the end of August—to be nearly the same party that we had ycart ago,” and he threw down the letter for me to read. Of course there was a special mention of " my niece, Miss Merrifield, who has just returned from India, and is ordered plenty of sea-air.” I could have told that without reading the letter, for it was written quite clearly in Derrick's face. Ho looked ten year’s younger, and if any of his adoring readers could have seen the pranks he was up to that morning in our staid and respect able chambers, I am afraid they would no longer have spoken of him “ with Dated breath and whispering humbleness.” As it happened, I too was able to leave home for a fortnight at the end of August; and so our party in the “ Aurora” really was the same, ex cept that we wero all several years older, and let us hope wiser, than on the previous occa sion. Considering all that had intervened, I was surprised that Derrick was not more altered; as for Freda, she was decidedly paler than when we first met her, but, before long, sea-air and happiness wrought a wonderful transformation in ner. In spite of the pessimists who are forever writing books—even writing novels (more shame to them) to prove that there is no such thing as happiness in the world, we managed every one of us heartily to enjoy our cruise. It seemed indeed true that— “Green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather. And singing and loving all come back together.” Something, at any rate, of the glamour of those past days came back to us all, I fancy, as we laughed and dozed and idled and talked beneath the snowy wings of the “ Auroraand I cannot say I was in tne least surprised when, on roaming through the pleasant garden walks iu that unique little island of Tresco, I came once more upon Derrick and Freda, with, if you will believe it, another handful of white heather liven to them by that discerning gardener! j’reda once more reminded me of the girl in the “ Biglow Papers,” and Derrick’s face was full of such bliss as one seldom sees. He had always had to wait for his good things, but in the end they came to him. Howeverjou may depend upon it he didn’t say much. That was never his way. He only gripped my hand, and with his eyes all aglow with happiness, ex claimed : “ Congratulate me, old fellow 1” [the end.] SPLINTERS. "That actor is pretty prominent on the bill boards,” remarked the guest at the hotel. “ Yes, but very obscure on the board bills,” re- plid the landlord.—Washington. Post “Thebe goes a brother-in-law of mine.” “I didn’t know you had any.” " Oh, yes; the girl he married promised to be a sister to quite a number of us fellows.”— Washington Post Hogs out West sell at five cents a pound, live weight At this rate the market price of the man'who sits cross-legged in the street car would be about $8.50—New York Recorder. “Do yon know, Ethel,” said Chappie, "that you dwell in my mind altogether. “I don’t either,” said Ethel, “and, what is more, I shall never live in a flat as long as I live.”— The Epoch. ' The editor pf the Chicago Tribune has prob ably run into an umbrella. He prints this ad monition : “ No man should carry a half-opened umbrella in a crowd. He should either put up or shut up.”—Kansas City Star. Pbetty Daughter—Ma, may I go boating?” Fond Mother—" Indeed, yon shan’t 1 The idea I Who invited you?” Daughter—" Mr. Buffers."" Fond Mother—" Oh 1 Yes, you may go with Mr. Bliffers. He has a cork leg, and if the boat ud- i sets, just hang on to that.’ 7