ld find a purchaser."

"I am, I am," she said, her manner changing to deep humility with
wonderful rapidity. With such alternations of feeling as this sweeping
over her like great waves, no wonder she was old before her time.

"Then you must take out that doctor."

"I am willing, but do not know how," she answered, pressing her hands
together helplessly. "In my mind he belongs to the story so closely
that he cannot be separated from it."

Here Simpson entered, bringing a note for me: it was a line from Mrs.
Abercrombie inviting me for that evening--an unexpected gathering, and
therefore likely to be all the more agreeable. My heart bounded in
spite of me; I forgot Miss Grief and her manuscripts for the moment as
completely as though they had never existed. But, bodily, being still
in the same room with her, her speech brought me back to the present.

"You have had good news?" she said.

"Oh no, nothing especial--merely an invitation."

"But good news also," she repeated. "And now, as for me, I must go."

Not supposing that she would stay much later in any case, I had that
morning ordered a carriage to come for her at about that hour. I told
her this. She made no reply beyond putting on her bonnet and shawl.

"You will hear from me soon," I said; "I shall do all I can for you."

She had reached the door, but before opening it she stopped, turned and
extended her hand. "You are good," she said: "I give you thanks. Do not
think me ungrateful or envious. It is only that you are young, and I am
so--so old." Then she opened the door and passed through the anteroom
without pause, her maid accompanying her and Simpson with gladness
lighting the way. They were gone. I dressed hastily and went out--to
continue my studies in psychology.

Time passed; I was busy, amused and perhaps a little excited (sometimes
psychology is exciting). But, though much occupied with my own affairs,
I did not altogether neglect my self-imposed task regarding Miss Grief.
I began by sending her prose story to a friend, the editor of a monthly
magazine, with a letter making a strong plea for its admittance. It
should have a chance first on its own merits. Then I forwarded the
drama to a publisher, also an acquaintance, a man with a taste for
phantasms and a soul above mere common popularity, as his own coffers
knew to their cost. This done, I waited with conscience clear.

Four weeks passed. During this waiting period I heard nothing from Mis