with such absolute frankness and sincerity that Aladdin's heart almost warmed toward him. It was presently known all over the house that Aladdin had written the song. And some of the more clownish of the young people called for Author, Author. Aladdin hung his head.
At supper at the St. Johns' later was a crisp, brisk gentleman with grayish hair, who talked in a pleasant, dry way. Aladdin learned that it was Mr. Blankinship, editor and proprietor of the Portland "Spy." Almost immediately on learning this important item, he saw Mr. Blankinship exchange a word with Margaret and come toward him.
"Mr. O'Brien?"
"Yes, sir."
"The same that sent us three poems a while ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you wrote that song we heard to-night?"
"Yes, sir." Aladdin was now fiery red.
"What do you do for a living?"
