versities were as essential a part of her work as her inspirations,
and not to be separated from it. Once during this period I showed two
of the short poems to Isabel, withholding of course the writer's name.
"They were written by a woman," I explained.

"Her mind must have been disordered, poor thing!" Isabel said in her
gentle way when she returned them--"at least, judging by these. They
are hopelessly mixed and vague."

Now, they were not vague so much as vast. But I knew that I could not
make Isabel comprehend it, and (so complex a creature is man) I do not
know that I wanted her to comprehend it. These were the only ones in
the whole collection that I would have shown her, and I was rather glad
that she did not like even these. Not that poor Aaronna's poems were
evil: they were simply unrestrained, large, vast, like the skies or the
wind. Isabel was bounded on all sides, like a violet in a garden-bed.
And I liked her so.

One afternoon, about the time when I was beginning to see that I could
not "improve" Miss Grief, I came upon the maid. I was driving, and she
had stopped on the crossing to let the carriage pass. I recognized her
at a glance (by her general forlornness), and called to the driver to
stop: "How is Miss Grief?" I said. "I have been intending to write to
her for some time."

"And your note, when it comes," answered the old woman on the crosswalk
fiercely, "she shall not see."

"What?"

"I say she shall not see it. Your patronizing face shows that you have
no good news, and you shall not rack and stab her any more on _this_
earth, please God, while I have authority."

"Who has racked or stabbed her, Serena?"

"Serena, indeed! Rubbish! I'm no Serena: I'm her aunt. And as to who
has racked and stabbed her, I say you, _you_--YOU literary men!" She
had put her old head inside my carriage, and flung out these words at
me in a shrill, menacing tone. "But she shall die in peace in spite of
you," she continued. "Vampires! you take her ideas and fatten on them,
and leave her to starve. You know you do--_you_ who have had her poor
manuscripts these months and months!"

"Is she ill?" I asked in real concern, gathering that much at least
from the incoherent tirade.

"She is dying," answered the desolate old creature, her voice softening
and her dim eyes filling with tears.

"Oh, I trust not. Perhaps something can be done. Can I help you in any
way?"

"In all ways if you would," she said, breaking d