To his intense surprise, Mary, instead of evincing a becoming
sense of her romantic situation, burst forth into a merry peal
of laughter, and, catching him by one shoulder, gave him a hearty
shake.

"La sakes! Mr. Author, do wake up! did ever anybody hear such a
man!"

There was his room, his fire, his chair, his table, and his
closely-written manuscript lying quietly upon it. There was
he himself on his knees on the carpet, and--there was Mary the
house-maid, one hand holding the brimming tea-pot, the other held
by the author against his lips, and laughing and blushing in a
tumult of surprise, amusement and, perhaps, something better than
either.

"Did I say I loved you, Mary?" enquired the author, in a state of
bewilderment. "Never mind! I say now that I love you with all my
heart and soul, and ten times as much when awake, as when I was
dreaming! Will you marry me?"

Mary only blushed rosier then ever. But she and the author always
thereafter took their tea cosily together.

As for the romance, the author took it and threw it into the
fire, which roared a genial acknowledgment, and in five minutes
had made itself thoroughly acquainted with every page. There
remained a bunch of black flakes, and in the center one soft
glowing spark, which lingered a long while ere finally taking
its flight up the chimney. It was the description of the little