recalled at once to reality. I recognise "Scissors," and put the buttons carefully into my pocket. He attempts to pass; doesn't even acknowledge my nod; is suddenly intently busied with his nails. I stop him, and inquire for the editor.

"Not in, do you hear."

"You lie," I said, and, with a cheek that fairly amazed myself, I continued, "I must have a word with him; it is a necessary errand—communications from the Stiftsgaarden^[1]

"Well, can't you tell me what it is, then?"

"Tell you?" and I looked "Scissors" up and down. This had the desired effect. He accompanied me at once, and opened the door. My heart was in my mouth now; I set my teeth, to try and revive my courage, knocked, and entered the editor's private office.

"Good-day! Is it you?" he asked, kindly; "sit down."

If he had shown me the door it would have been almost as acceptable. I felt as if I were on the point of crying, and said:

"I beg you will excuse . . ."

"Pray, sit down," he repeated. And I sat