actually existed; of that the author was certain, and in that he
was very probably correct. To be sure, there was the character
of the country girl, Mary, which he had taken from his own
little waiting-maid: but that was a very subordinate element,
and although, on the whole, he rather regretted having introduced
anything so incongruous and unimaginative, he decided to let it
go. The romance, as a whole, was too great to be injured by one
little country girl, drawn from real life. "And by the way,"
murmured the author to himself, "I wish Mary would bring in my
tea."

He settled himself still more comfortably in his easy chair, and
thought, and looked at his manuscript; and the manuscript looked
back; but all _its_ thinking had been done for it. Neither
spoke--the author, because the book already knew all he had to
say; and the book, because its time to speak and be immortal had
not yet arrived. The fire had all the talking to itself, and it
cackled, and hummed, and skipped about so cheerfully that one
would have imagined it expected to be the very first to receive
a presentation copy of the work on the table. "How I would devour
its contents!" laughed the fire.

Perhaps the author did not comprehend the full force of the
fire's remark, but the voice was so cosy and soothing, the
fire itself so ruddy and genial, and the easy chair so softly
cushioned and hospitable, that he very soon fell into a condition
which enabled him to see, hear, and understand a great many
things which might seem remarkable, and, indeed, almost
incredible.