e 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I am not withdrawn from this work she will make no end of trouble.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 mustn'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 of 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! Isn't that door open?"

"No," she replied, "it's locked. Do you want to shake hands with me?"

"Of course I do!" I cried. "Good-by 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