The House of Martha

XVIII.

AN ILLEGIBLE WORD.

EVERY morning there seemed to be some reason or other why I should anticipate with an animated interest the coming of my secretary, and on the morning after what I might call her “ strike ” the animation of said interest was very apparent to me, but I hope not to any one else. Over and over I said to myself that I must not let my nun see that I was greatly pleased with Walkirk’s intervention. It would be wise to take the result as a matter of course.

As the clock struck nine, she and Sister Sarah entered the anteroom, and the latter advanced to the grating and looked into my study, peering from side to side. I did not like this sister’s face ; she looked as if she had grown unpleasantly plump on watered milk.

“ Is it necessary,” she asked. “ that you should smoke tobacco during your working hours?”

“ I never do it,” I replied indignantly, — “ never ! ”

“ Several times,” she said, “ I have thought I perceived the smell of tobacco smoke in this sister’s garments.”

“ You are utterly mistaken ! ” I exclaimed. “ During the hours of work these rooms are perfectly free from anything of the sort.”

She gave a little grunt and departed, and when she had locked the door I could not restrain a slight ejaculation of annoyance.

“ You must not mind Sister Sarah.” said the sweet voice of my nun behind the barricade of her bonnet; “ she is as mad as hops this morning.”

“What is the matter with her ? ” I asked, my angry feelings disappearing in an instant.

“ She and Mother Anastasia have had a long discussion about the message you sent in regard to my keeping on with the story. Sister Sarah is very much opposed to my doing your writing at all.” “ Well, as she is not the head of your House, I suppose we need not trouble ourselves about that,” I replied. “ But how does the arrangement suit you ? Are you satisfied to continue to write my little story ? ”

“ Satisfied ! ” she said. “ I am perfectly delighted ; ” and as she spoke she turned toward me, her eyes sparkling, and her face lighted by the most entrancing smile I ever beheld on the countenance of woman. “ This is a thousand times more interesting than anything you have done yet, although I liked the rest very much. Of course I stopped when I supposed it was against our rules to continue ; but now that I know it is all right I am — But no matter ; let us go on with it. This is what I last wrote,” and she read: “ ‘Tomaso and the pretty Lucilla now seated themselves on the rock, by a little spring. He was trying to look into her lovely blue eyes, which were slightly turned away from him and veiled by their long lashes. There was something he must say to her, and he felt he could wait no longer. Gently he took the little hand which lay nearest him, and’ — There is where I stopped,” she said ; and then, her face still bright, but with the smile succeeded by an air of earnest consideration, she asked, “ Do you object to suggestions ? ”

“ Not at all,” said I ; “ when they are to the point, they help me.”

“ Well, then,” she said, “ I would n’t have her eyes blue. Italian girls nearly always have black or brown eyes. It is hard to think of this girl as a blonde.”

“Oh, but her eyes are blue,” I said;

“ it would not do at all to have them anything else. Some Italian girls are that way. At any rate, I could n’t alter her in my mind.”

“ Perhaps not,” she replied, “ but in thinking about her she always seems to me to have black eyes ; however, that is a matter of no importance, and I am ready to go on.”

Thus, on matters strictly connected with business, my nun and I conversed, and then we went on with our work. I think that from the very beginnings of literature there could have been no author who derived from his labors more absolute pleasure than I derived from mine ; never was a story more interesting to tell than the story of Tomaso and Lucilla. It proved to be a very long one, much longer than I had supposed I could make it, and sometimes I felt that it was due to the general character of my book that I should occasionally insert some description of scenery or instances of travel.

My secretary wrote as fast as I could dictate, and sometimes wished, I think, that I would dictate faster. She seldom made comments unless she thought it absolutely necessary to do so, but there were certain twitches and movements of her head and shoulders which might indicate emotions, such as pleasant excitement at the sudden development of the situation, or impatience at my delay in the delivery of interesting passages; and I imagined that during the interpolation of descriptive matter she appeared to be anxious to get through with it as quickly as possible, and to go on with the story.

It was my wish to make my book a very large one ; it was therefore desirable to be economical with the material I had left, and to eke it out as much as I could with fiction ; but upon considering the matter I became convinced that it could not be very long before the material which in any way could be connected with the story must give out, and that therefore it would have to come to an end. How I wished I had spent more time in Sicily ! I would have liked to write a whole book about Sicily.

Of course I might take the lovers to other countries; but I had not planned anything of this kind, and it would require some time to work it out. Now, however, a good idea occurred to me, which would postpone the conclusion of the interesting portion of my work. I would have my secretary read what she had written. This would give me time to think out more of the story, and it is often important that an author should know what he has done before he goes on to do more. We had arrived at a point where the narrative could easily stop for a while; Tomaso having gone on a fishing voyage, and the middleaged innkeeper, whose union with Lucilla was favored by her mother and the village priest, having departed for Naples to assume the guardianship of two very handsome young women, the daughters of an old friend, recently deceased.

When I communicated to my nun my desire to change her work from writing to reading, she seemed surprised, and asked if there were not danger that I might forget how I intended to end the story. I reassured her on this point, and she appeared to resign herself to the situation.

“ Shall I begin with the first page of the manuscript,” said she, " or read only what I have written ? ”

“ Oh, begin at the very beginning,” I said. “ I want to hear it all.”

Then she began, hesitating a little at times over the variable chirography of my first amanuensis. I drew up my chair near to the grating, but before she had read two pages I asked her to stop for a moment.

“I think,” said I, “it will be impossible for me to get a clear idea of what yon are reading unless you turn and speak in my direction. You see, the sides of your bonnet interfere very much with my hearing what you say.”

For a few moments she remained in her ordinary position, and then she slowly turned her chair toward me. I am sure she had received instructions against looking into my study, which was filled with objects calculated to attract the attention of an intelligent and cultivated person. Then she read the manuscript, and as she did so I said to myself, over and over again, that for her to read to me was a thousand times more agreeable than for me to dictate to her.

As she read, her eyes were cast down on the pages which she held in her hand ; but frequently when I made a correction they were raised to mine, as she endeavored to understand exactly what I wanted her to do. I made a good many alterations which I think improved the work very much.

Once she found it utterly impossible to decipher a certain word of the manuscript. She scrutinized it earnestly, and then, her mind entirely occupied by her desire properly to read the matter, she rose, and came close to the grating, holding the page so that I could see it.

“ Can you make out this word ? ” she asked. “ I cannot imagine how any one could write so carelessly.”

I sprang to my feet and stood close to the grating. I could not take the paper from her, and it was necessary for her to hold it. I examined the word letter by letter. I gave my opinion of each letter, and I asked her opinion. It was a most illegible word. A good many things interfered with my comprehension of it. Among these were the two hands with which she held up the page, and another was the idea which came to me that in the House of Martha the sisters were fed on violets. I am generally quite apt at deciphering bad writing, and never before had I shown myself so slow and obtuse at this sort of thing.

Suddenly a thought struck me. I glanced at the clock in my study. It wanted ten minutes of twelve.

“ It must be,” said I, “that that word is intended to be ‘ heaven-given,’ — at any rate, we will make it that; and now I think I will get you to copy the last part of that page. You can do it on the back of the sheet.”

She was engaged in this writing when Sister Sarah came in.

XIX.

GRAY ICE.

During the engagement of my present secretary, a question had frequently arisen in my mind, which I wished to have answered, but which I had hesitated to ask, for fear the sister should imagine it indicated too much personal interest in her. This question related to her name, and now it was really necessary for me to know it. I did not wish any longer to speak to her as if she were merely a principle; she had become a most decided entity. However harsh and gray and woolly her name might be, I wanted to know it and to hear it from her own lips. The next morning I asked her what it was.

She was sitting at the table arranging the pages she was going to read, and at the question she turned toward me. Her face was flushed, but not, I think, with displeasure.

“Do you know,” she said, “it has seemed to me the funniest thing in the world that you have never cared the least bit to know my name.”

“ I did care,” I replied, “in fact it was awkward not to know it; but of course I did not want to — interfere in any way with the rules of your establishment.”

“Ah,” she said, “I have noticed your extreme solicitude in regard to our rules, but there is no rule against telling our names. Mine is Sister Hagar.”

“ Hagar ! ” I exclaimed. “ You do not mean that is your real name ?”

“ It is the name given me by the House of Martha,” she answered. “ There is a list of names by which the sisters must be called, and as we enter the institution we take the names in their order on the list. Hagar came to me.”

“ I shall not call you by that,” said I, “and we may as well go on with our work.”

I was anxious to have her read, and to forget that she was called Hagar.

She was a long time arranging the manuscript and putting the pages in order. I did not hurry her, but I could not see any reason for so much preparation. Presently she said, still arranging the sheets, and with her head bent slightly over her work: “ I don’t know whether or not I ought to tell you, but I dislike to be called Hagar. The next name on the list is Rebecca, and I am willing to take that, but the rules of the House do not allow us to skip an unappropriated name, and permit no choosing. However, Mother Anastasia has not pressed the matter, and, although I am entered as Sister Hagar, the sisters do not call me by that name.”

“ What do they call you ? ”

“ Oh, they simply use the name that was mine before I entered the House of Martha,” said she.

“ And what is that ? ” I asked quickly.

“ Ah,” said my nun, pushing her sheets into a compact pile, and thumping their edges on the table to make them even, “ to talk about that would be decidedly against the rules of the institution ; and now I am ready to read.”

Thus did she punish me for what she considered my want of curiosity or interest ; I knew it as well as if she had told me so. I accepted the rebuff and said no more, and she went on with her reading.

On this and the following day I became aware how infinitely more pleasant it was to listen than to be listened to, — at least under certain circumstances. I considered it wonderfully fortunate to be able to talk to such an admirable listener as Walkirk ; but to sit and hear my nun read ; to watch the charming play of her mouth, and the occasional flush of a smile when she came to something exciting or humorous ; to look into the blue of her eyes, as she raised them to me while I considered an alteration, was to me an overwhelming rapture, — I could call it nothing less. But by the end of the third morning of reading my good sense told me that this sort of thing could not go on, and it would be judicious for me to begin again my dictation, and to let my secretary confine herself to her writing. The fact that on any morning I had not allowed her to read until the hour of noon was an additional proof that my decision was a wise one.

The story of Tomaso and Lucilla now went bravely on, with enough groundwork of foreign land for the characters to stand on, and I tried very hard to keep my mind on the writing of my hook and away from its writer. Outwardly I may have appeared to succeed fairly well in this purpose, but inwardly the case was different. However, if I could suppress any manifestations of my emotions, I told myself, I ought to be satisfied.

A few mornings after the recommencement of the dictation I was a little late in entering my study, and I found my secretary already at the table in the anteroom. In answer to my morning salutation she merely bowed, and sat ready for work. She did not even offer to read what she had last written. This surprised me. Was she resenting what she might look upon as undue stiffness and reserve ? If so, I was very sorry, but at the same time I would meet her on her own ground. If she chose to return to her old rigidity, I would accept the situation, and be as formal as she liked.

More than this, I began to feel a little resentment. I would revert not only to my former manner, but to my former matter. I would wind up that lovestory, and confine myself to the subject of foreign travel.

Acting on this resolution, I made short work of Tomaso and Lucilla. The former determined not to think of marriage until he was several years older, and had acquired the necessary means to support a wife ; and Lucilla accepted the advice of her mother and the priest, and obtained a situation in a lace-making establishment in Venice, where she resolved to work industriously until the middle-aged innkeeper had made up his mind whether or not he would marry one of the handsome girls to whom he had become guardian.

To this very prosaic conclusion of the love-story I added some remarks intended as an apology for introducing such a story into my sketches of travel, and showing how the little narrative brought into view some of the characteristics of the people of Sicily. After that I discoursed of the present commerce of Italy as compared with that of the Middle Ages.

My secretary took no notice whatever of my change of subject, but went on writing as I dictated. This apathy at last became so annoying to me that, excusing myself, I left my study before the hour of noon.

It is impossible for me to say how the events, or rather the want of events, of that morning disturbed my mind. By turns I was angry, I was grieved, I was regretful, I was resentful. It is so easy sometimes for one person, with the utmost placidity, to throw another person into a state of mental agitation ; and this I think is especially noticeable when the placid party is a woman.

As the day wore on, my disquiet of mind and body and general ill humor did not abate, and, wishing that other people should not notice my unusual state of mind, I took an early afternoon train to the city; leaving a note for Walkirk, informing him that his services as listener would not be needed that evening. The rest of that day I spent at my club, where, fortunately for my mood, I met only a few old fellows who could not get out of town in the summer, and who had learned, from long practice, to be quite sufficient unto themselves. Seated in a corner of the large reading-room, I spent the evening smoking, holding in my hand an unread newspaper, and asking myself mental questions.

I inquired why in the name of common sense I allowed myself to be so disturbed by the conduct of an amanuensis, paid by the day, and, moreover, a member of a religious order. I inquired why the fates should have so ordered it that this perfectly charming young woman should suddenly have become frozen into a mass of gray ice. I inquired if I had inadvertently done or said anything which would naturally wound the feelings or arouse the resentment of a sister of the House of Martha. I inquired if there could be any reasonable excuse for a girl who, on account of an omission or delay in asking her name, would assume a manner of austere rudeness to a gentleman who had always treated her with scrupulous courtesy. Finally I asked myself why it was that I persisted, and persisted, and persisted in thinking about a thing like this, when my judgment told me that I should instantly dismiss the whole affair from my mind, and employ my thoughts on something sensible ; and to this I gave the only answer which I made to any of the inquiries I had put to myself. That was that I did not know why this was so, but it was so, and there was no help for it.

Walking home from the station quite late at night, the question which had so much troubled me suddenly resolved itself, and I became convinced that the change in the manner of my secretary was due to increased pressure of the rules of the House of Martha. I would not, I could not, believe that a fit of pique, occasioned by my apparent want of interest in her, could make her thus cold and even rude. She was not the kind of girl to do this thing of her own volition. It was those wretched rules ; and if they were to be enforced in this way, the head of the House of Martha should know that I considered the act a positive discourtesy, if nothing more.

I was angry, — that was not to be wondered at; but it was a great relief to me to feel that I need not be angry with my secretary.

XX.

TOMASO AND I.

The next day my amanuensis bade me good-morning in her former pleasant manner, but without turning toward me seated herself quickly at the table, and took the manuscript from the drawer. “Oh, ho!” I thought, “then you can speak ; and it was not the rules which made you behave in that way, but your own pique, which has worn off a little.”I glanced at her as she intently looked over the work of the day before, and I was considering whether or not it would be fitting for me to show that there might be pique on one side of the grating as well as on the other, when suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a burst of laughter, — girlish, irrepressible laughter. With the manuscript in her hands, my nun actually leaned back in her chair and laughed so heartily that I wonder my grandmother did not hear her.

“ I declare,” she said, turning to me, her eyes glistening with tears of merriment, “ this is the funniest thing I ever saw. Why, you have actually separated those poor lovers for life, and crushed every hope, in the properest way. And then all the rest about commerce ! I would n’t have believed you could do it.”

“ What do you mean ? ” I exclaimed.

“ You showed no surprise when you wrote it.”

Again she laughed.

“ Wrote it! ” she cried. “ I never wrote a line of it. It was Sister Sarah who was your secretary yesterday. Did n’t you know that ? ”

I stood for a moment utterly unable to answer ; then I gasped, “ Sister Sarah wrote for me yesterday ! What does it mean ? ”

“ Positively,” said she, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet, “this is not only the funniest, but the most wonderful thing in the world. Do you mean truly to say that you did not know it was Sister Sarah who wrote for you yesterday ? ”

“ I did not suspect it for an instant,”

I answered.

“ It was, it was ! ” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in her earnestness, and stepping closer to the grating. “ When we came here yesterday, and found you were not in your room, a sudden idea struck her. ‘ I will stay here myself, this morning,’ she said, ‘ and do his writing. I want to know what sort of a story this is that is being dictated to a sister of our House ; ’ and so she simply turned me out and told me to go home. You don’t know how frightened I was. I was afraid that, as we dress exactly alike, you might not at first notice that Sister Sarah was sitting at the table, and that you might begin with an awfully affectionate speech by Tomaso; for I knew that something of that kind was just on the point of breaking out, and I knew too that if you did it there would be lively times in the House of Martha, and perhaps here also. I fairly shivered the whole morning, and my only hope was that she would begin to snap at you as soon as you came in, and you would then know whom you had to deal with, and that you would have to put a lot of water into your love-making if you wanted any more help from the sisters. But if I had known that you would not find out that she was writing for you, I should certainly have died. I could n’t have stood it. But how in the world could you have kept on thinking that that woman was I ? She is shorter and fatter, and not a bit like me, except in her clothes; and if you thought I was writing for you, why did you dictate that ridiculous stuff ? ”

I stood confounded. Here were answers to devise.

“ Of course the dress deceived me,” I said presently, “ and not once did she turn her face toward me; besides, I did not imagine for a moment that any one but you could be sitting at that table.”

“ But I cannot understand why,” she pursued, “ if you did n’t know it was Sister Sarah, you made that sudden change in your story.”

For a moment I hesitated, and then I saw I might as well speak out honestly. When a man sees before him a pair of blue eyes like those which were then fixed upon me, the chances are that he will speak out honestly.

“ The fact is,” I said, “ that I ’m a little — well, sensitive; and when you, or the person I thought was you, did not speak to me, nor look at me, nor pay any more heed to me than if I had been a talking-machine worked with a crank, I was somewhat provoked, and determined that if you suddenly chose to freeze in that way I would freeze too, and that you should have no more of that story in which you were so interested ; and so I smashed the loves of Tomaso and Lucilla and took up commerce, which I was sure you would hate.”

At this there was a quick flash in her eyes, and the first tremblings of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“ Oh! ” she said, and that was all she did say, as she returned to the table and took her seat.

“Is my explanation satisfactory ? ” I asked.

“Oh, certainly,” she answered ; “ and if you will excuse me for saying so, I think you are a very fortunate man. In trying to punish me you protected yourself, — that is, if you care to have secretaries from our institution.”

As I could not see her face, I could not determine what answer I should make to this remark, and she continued as she turned over the sheets : —

“ What are you going to do with the pages which were written yesterday ? ”

“ Tear them up,” I replied, “ and throw them into the basket. I wish to annihilate them utterly,”

She obeyed me, and tore Sister Sarah’s work into very small pieces.

“ Now we will go on with the original and genuine story,” I said. “And as the occurrences of yesterday are entirely banished from my mind, and as all recollection of the point where we left off has gone, will you kindly read two or three pages of what you last wrote ? ”

Several times I had perceived, or thought I had perceived, symptoms of emotion in the back of my secretary’s shawl, and these symptoms, if such they were, were visible now. She occupied some minutes in selecting a suitable point at which to begin, but when she had done this she read without any signs of emotion, either in her shawl or in her face.

The story of the Sicilian young people progressed slowly, not because of any lack of material but because I was anxious to portray the phases as clearly and as effectively as I could possibly do it; and whenever I could prevent myself from thinking of something else, I applied my mind most earnestly to this object. I flatter myself that I did the work very well, and I am sure there were passages the natural fervor of which would have made Sister Sarah bounce at least a yard from her chair, had they been dictated to her, but my nun did not bounce in the least.

Before the hour at which we usually stopped work I arose from my chair, and stated that that would be all for the day. My secretary looked at me quickly.

“All for to-day ? ” she asked, a little smile of disapprobation upon her brow. “ It cannot be twelve o’clock yet.”

“ No,” I answered, “ it is not; but it is not easy to work out the answer which Lucilla ought now to make to Tomaso, and I shall have to take time for its consideration.”

“ I should n’t think it would be easy,” said she, “ but, I hoped you had it already in your mind.”

“ Then you are interested in it ? ” I asked.

“ Of course I am,” she answered, — “ who would n’t be ? And just at this point, too, when everything depends on what she says ; but it is quite right for you to be very careful about what you make her say,” and she gathered her sheets together to lay them away.

Now I wanted to say something to her. I stopped work for that purpose, but I did not know what to say. An apology for my conduct of the day before would not be exactly in order, and an explanation of it would be exceedingly difficult. I walked up and down my study, and she continued to arrange her pages. When she had put them into a compact and very neat little pile, she opened the table drawer, placed them in it, examined some other contents of the drawer, and finally closed it, and sat looking out of the window. After some minutes of this silent observation, she half turned toward me, and without entirely removing her gaze from the appletree outside, she asked : —

“ Do you still want to know my name ? ”

“ Indeed I do ! ” I exclaimed, stepping quickly to the grating.

“ Well, then,” she said, “ it is Sylvia.”

At this moment we heard the footsteps of Sister Sarah in the hall, at least two minutes before the usual time.

When they had gone, I stood by my study table, my arms folded and my eyes fixed upon the floor.

“ Horace Vanderley,” I said to myself, “ you are in love ; ” and to this frank and explicit statement I answered, quite as frankly, “That is certainly true ; there can be no mistake about it.”

XXI.

LUCILLA AND I.

A Saturday afternoon, evening, and night, the whole of a Sunday and its night, with some hours of a Monday morning, intervened between the moment at which I had acknowledged to myself my feelings toward my secretary and the moment at which I might expect to see her again, and nearly the whole of this time was occupied by me in endeavoring to determine what should be my next step. To stand still in my present position was absolutely impossible ; I must go forward or backward. To go backward was a simple thing enough ; it was like turning round and jumping down a precipice ; it made me shudder. To go forward was like climbing a precipice with beetling crags and perpendicular walls of ice.

The first of these alternatives did not require any consideration whatever. To the second I gave all the earnest consideration of which I was capable, but I saw no way of getting up. The heights were inaccessible.

In very truth, my case was a hard one. I could not make love to a woman through a grating ; and if I could, I would not be dishonorable enough to do it, when that woman was locked up in a room, and could not get away in case she did not wish to listen to my protestations. But between the girl I loved and myself there was a grating compared with which the harrier in the doorway of my study was as a spider’s web. This was the network of solemn bars which surrounded the sisters of the House of Martha, — the vows they had made never to think of love, to read of it or speak of it.

To drop metaphors, it would be impossible for me to continue to work with her and conceal my love for her ; it would be stupidly useless, and moreover cowardly, to declare that love; and it would be sensible, praiseworthy, and in every way advantageous for me to cease my literary labors and go immediately to the Adirondacks or to Mount Desert. But would I go away on Saturday or Sunday when she was coming on Monday ? Not I.

She came on Monday, surrounded by a gray halo, which had begun to grow as beautiful to my vision as the delicate tints of early dawn. When she began to read what she had last written, I seated myself in a chair by the grating. When she had finished, I sat silent for a minute, got up and walked about, came back, sat down, and was silent again. In my whole mind there did not seem to be one crevice into which an available thought concerning my travels could squeeze itself. She sat quietly looking out of the window at the apple-tree. Presently she said : —

“ I suppose you find it hard to begin work on Monday morning, after having rested so long. It must be difficult to get yourself again into the proper frame of mind.”

“ On this Monday morning,” I answered, “ I find it very hard indeed.”

She turned, and for the first time that day fixed her eyes upon me. She did not look well; she was pale.

“ I had hoped, " she said, with a little smile without any brightness in it, “ that you would finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla; but I don t believe you feel like composing, so how would you like me to read this morning ? ”

“ Nothing could suit me better,” I answered; and in my heart I thought that here was an angelic gift, a relief and a joy.

“I will begin,” she said, “at the point where I left off reading.” She took up a portion of the manuscript, she brought her chair within a yard of the grating, she sat down with her face toward me, and she read. Sometimes she stopped and spoke of what she was reading, now to ask a question, and now to tell something she had seen in the place I described. I said but little. I did not wish to occupy any of that lovely morning with my words, —words which were bound to mean nothing. As she read and talked, some color came into her face; she looked more like herself. What a shame to shut up such a woman in a House where she never had anything interesting to talk about, never anybody interested to talk to !

After the reading of half a dozen pages, during which she had not interrupted herself, she laid the manuscript in her lap, and asked me the time. I told her it wanted twenty minutes to twelve. She made no answer, but rose, put the manuscript in the drawer, and then returned with a little note which she had taken from her pocket.

“ Mother Anastasia desired me to give you this,” she said, folding it so that she could push it through one of the interstices of the grating ; “ she told me to hand it to you as I was coming away, but I don’t think she would object to your reading it a little before that.”

I took the note, unfolded it, and read it. Mother Anastasia wrote an excellent hand. She informed me that it had been decided that the sister of the House of Martha who had been acting as my amanuensis should not continue in that position, but should now devote herself to another class of work. If, however, I desired it, another sister would take her place.

I stood unable to speak. I must have been as pale as the white paint on the door-frame near which I stood.

“You see,” said Sylvia, and from the expression upon her face I think she must have perceived that I did not like what I had read, “ this is the work of Sister Sarah. I might as well tell you that at once, and I am sure there is no harm in my doing so. She has always objected to my writing for you; and although the morning she spent with you would have satisfied any reasonable person that there could be no possible objection to my doing it, she has not ceased to insist that I shall give it up, and go to the Measles Refuge. That, however, I will not do, but I cannot come here any more. Mother Anastasia and I are both sure that if I am not withdrawn from this work she will make no end of trouble. She has consented that I should go on until now simply because this day ends my month.”I was filled with amazement, grief, and rage.

“The horrible wretch ! ” I exclaimed. “What malignant wickedness! ”

“ Oh,” said Sylvia, holding up one finger, “ you must n’t talk like that about the sister. She may think she is right, but I don’t see how she can ; and perhaps she would have some reason on her side if she could see me standing here talking about her, instead of attending to my work. But I determined that I would not go away without saying a word. You have always been very courteous to us, and I don’t see why we should not be courteous to you.”

“ Are you sorry to go ? ” I asked, getting as close to the grating as I could. “ If they would let you, would you go on writing for me ? ”

“ I should be glad to go on with the work,” she said ; “ it is just what I like.”

“ Too bad, too bad ! ” I cried. “Cannot it be prevented ? Cannot I see somebody? You do not know how much I — how exactly you " —

“ Excuse me,” said Sylvia, “ for interrupting you, but what time is it? ”

I glanced at the clock. “It wants four minutes to twelve,” I gasped.

“ Then I must bid you good-by,” she said.

“ Good-by ? ” I repeated. “ How can you bid me good-by ? Confound this grating ! Is n’t that door open ? ”

“No,” she replied, “it’s locked. Do you want to shake hands with me ? ”

“ Of course I do ! ” I cried. “ Goodby like this ! It cannot be.”

“ I think,” she said quickly, “ that if you could get out of your window, you might come to mine and shake hands.”

What a scintillating inspiration ! What a girl! I had not thought of it! In a moment I had bounded out of my window, and was standing under hers, which was not four feet from the ground. There she was, with her beautiful white hand already extended. I seized it in both of mine.

“ Oh, Sylvia,” I said, “ I cannot have you go in this way. I want to tell you — I want to tell you how ” —

“ You are very good,” she interrupted, endeavoring slightly to withdraw her hand, “ and when the story of Tomaso and Lucilla is finished and printed I am going to read it, rules or no rules.”

“ It shall never be finished,” I exclaimed vehemently, “ if you do not write it,” and, lifting her hand, I really believe I was about to kiss it, when with a quick movement she drew it from me.

“ She is coming,” she said ; “ good-by ! good-by ! " and with a wave of her hand she was gone from the window.

I did not return to my study. I stood by the side of the house, with my fists clenched and my eyes set. Then, suddenly, I ran to the garden wall ; looking over it, I saw, far down the shaded village street, two gray figures walking away.

Frank R. Stockton.