turned over the dusty documents that seemed to fill the drawer. "Is this
it?" she said, holding out a thin discolored volume.

He seized it with a gasp. "Oh, by George," he said, dropping into the
nearest chair.

She stood observing him strangely as his eye devoured the mouldy pages.

"Is this the only copy left?" he asked at length, looking up for a moment
as a thirsty man lifts his head from his glass.

"I think it must be. I found it long ago, among some old papers that my
aunts were burning up after my grandmother's death. They said it was of no
use--that he'd always meant to destroy the whole edition and that I ought
to respect his wishes. But it was something he had written; to burn it was
like shutting the door against his voice--against something he had once
wished to say, and that nobody had listened to. I wanted him to feel that I
was always here, ready to listen, even when others hadn't thought it worth
while; and so I kept the pamphlet, meaning to carry out his wish and
destroy it before my death."

Her visitor gave a groan of retrospective anguish. "And but for me--but for
to-day--you would have?"

"I should have thought it my duty."

"Oh, by George--by George," he repeated, subdued afresh by the inadequacy
of speech.

She continued to watch him in silence. At length he jumped up and