uld not help
mentioning it. And now, I am sure I don't know what I ought to do."

"Do?" I asked. "There is nothing to do except to begin writing where you
left off. The wasp is dead."

"I wish it had never been born," she said. "I have no doubt that the
whole affair should come to an end now, and that I ought to go home; but
I can't do that until Sister Sarah comes to unlock the door, and so I
suppose we had better go to work."

"We"! I would not have dared to use that word, but it fell from her lips
in the easiest and most conventional manner possible. It was delightful
to hear it. I never knew before what a pleasant sound the word had. She
now set herself to work to gather up the papers from the floor, and,
having arranged them in their proper order, she took up her bonnet.

"Do you have to wear that?" I asked.

"Certainly," she answered, clapping it on and pulling it well forward.

"I should think it would be very hot and uncomfortable," I remarked.

"It is," she admitted curtly; and, seating herself at the table, she
took up her pen.

I now perceived that if I knew what was good for myself I would cease
from speaking on ordinary topics, and go on with my dictation. This I
did, giving out my sentences as rapidly as possible, although I must
admit I took no interest whatever in what I was saying, nor do I believe
that my secretary was interested in the subject-matter of my work. She
wrote rapidly, and, as well as I could judge, appeared excited and
annoyed. I was excited also, but not in the least disturbed. My emotions
were of a highly pleasing character. We worked steadily for some twenty
minutes, when suddenly she stopped and laid down her pen.

"Of course it isn't right to speak," she said, turning in her chair and
speaking to me face to face, as one human being to another, "but as I
have said so much already, I don't suppose a little more will make
matters worse, and I must ask somebody's help in making up my mind what
I ought to do. I suspect I have made all sorts of mistakes in this
writing, but I could not keep my thoughts on my work. I have been trying
my best to decide how I ought to act, but I cannot make up my mind."

"I shall be delighted to help you, if I can," I ventured. "What's the
point that you cannot decide?"

"It is just this," she replied, fixing her blue eyes upon me with
earnest frankness: "am I to tell the sisters what has happened or not?
If I tell them, I know exactly what will b