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“An authoress! This is worse than old lace,” I said to myself in dismay.–Then, aloud, “My opinion would be worth nothing, Miss Crief.”

“Not in a business way, I know. But it might be–an assistance personally.” Her voice had sunk to a whisper; outside, the rain was pouring steadily down. She was a very depressing object to me as she sat there with her box.

“I hardly think I have the time at present–” I began.

She had raised her eyes and was looking at me; then, when I paused, she rose and came suddenly toward my chair. “Yes, you will read it,” she said with her hand on my arm–“you will read it. Look at this room; look at yourself; look at all you have. Then look at me, and have pity.”

I had risen, for she held my arm, and her damp skirt was brushing my knees.

Her large dark eyes looked intently into mine as she went on; “I have no shame in asking. Why should I have? It is my last endeavor; but a calm and well-considered one. If you refuse I shall go away, knowing that Fate has willed it so. And I shall be content.”

“She is mad,” I thought. But she did not look so, and she had spoken quietly, even gently.–“Sit down,” I said, moving away from her. I felt as if I had been magnetized; but it was only the nearness of her eyes to mine, and their intensity. I drew forward a chair, but she remained standing.

“I cannot,” she said in the same sweet, gentle tone, “unless you promise.”

“Very well, I promise; only sit down.”

As I took her arm to lead her to the chair I perceived that she was trembling, but her face continued unmoved.

“You do not, of course, wish me to look at your manuscript now?” I said, temporizing; “it would be much better to leave it. Give me your address, and I will return it to you with my written opinion; though, I repeat, the latter will be of no use to you. It is the opinion of an editor or publisher that you want.”

“It shall be as you please. And I will go in a moment,” said Miss Grief, pressing her palms together, as if trying to control the tremor that had seized her slight frame.

She looked so pallid that I thought of offering her a glass of wine; then I remembered that if I did it might be a bait to bring her there again, and this I was desirous to prevent. She rose while the thought was passing through my mind. Her pasteboard box lay on the chair she had first occupied; she took it, wrote an address on the cover, laid it down, and then, bowing with a little air of formality, drew her black shawl round her shoulders and turned toward the door.

I followed, after touching the bell. “You will hear from me by letter,” I said.

Simpson opened the door, and I caught a glimpse of the maid, who was waiting in the anteroom. She was an old woman, shorter than her mistress, equally thin, and dressed like her in rusty black. As the door opened she turned toward it a pair of small, dim blue eyes with a look of furtive suspense. Simpson dropped the curtain, shutting me into the inner room; he had no intention of allowing me to accompany my visitor further. But I had the curiosity to go to a bay-window in an angle from whence I could command the street-door, and presently I saw them issue forth in the rain and walk away side by side, the mistress, being the taller, holding the umbrella: probably there was not much difference in rank between persons so poor and forlorn as these.

It grew dark. I was invited out for the evening, and I knew that if I should go I should meet Miss Abercrombie. I said to myself that I would not go. I got out my paper for writing, I made my preparations for a quiet evening at home with myself; but it was of no use. It all ended slavishly in my going. At the last allowable moment I presented myself, and–as a punishment for my vacillation, I suppose–I never passed a more disagreeable evening. I drove homeward in a murky temper; it was foggy without, and very foggy within. What Isabel really was, now that she had broken through my elaborately-built theories, I was not able to decide. There was, to tell the truth, a certain young Englishman–But that is apart from this story.