"Here, Wilberforce, do you know this MS.?" said Sheldon, holding it toward him.
"O, yes!" answered the gentleman, glancing it over; "beautiful hand, is it not?"
"Yes; but who is the writer?"
"O, I don't know that! I have had several communications from the same pen in the last three months, all exquisite in their style and diction, and eliciting warm commendation from the literary press."
"And cannot you discover the fair unknown?"
"No, I have addressed her under her nomme de plume, and desired her true name remitted, in confidence, if she objected to publicity; but she has never seen fit to gratify my curiosity."
"Strange one so deserving should shun notoriety," remarked Sheldon.
"So it seems to me," said Wilberforce, who was the senior editor; "but I came in to call you to the Literary Association; it meets at three o'clock. Come, let's be off, or we shall be too late;—these MSS. we can look over to-morrow."
They closed the office and went out in company. But Sheldon forgot himself several times in the debate, as a semblance of that delicate manuscript, enwrit with those clear, sparkling fancies, rose often before his mental vision.
There seemed to be a spell about it, to charm and lead captive his imagination.