"Other persons will care for them." "Other persons! What other persons?" "All persons who care for good literature," answered Dr. Lister steadily. Mrs. Lister turned head and shoulder so that she could look into his eyes. "You would not think of having them _published_!" "Without any question I should have them published!" "He was only a boy." She began in a trembling voice her first skirmish. "They are surely not worth publication. We might prize them, but others wouldn't. Do you not see that, papa?" "He was more than a boy and he was an extraordinarily fine writer of English. Why, mother, his very ghost would cry out upon us! Do you suppose he spent his days and nights, writing and polishing in order that his compositions might lie in an old bureau in an attic? We should be traitors to him!" "I would rather be a traitor to him in that way than be responsible for publishing his--his sins!" cried Mrs. Lister wildly. "If his writings are really good, people would come flocking about us like wolves. That Mr. Utterly reminded me of a wolf. They would ferret things out, they would--" "From whom would they ferret anything out?" "They might make her believe it was her duty to tell. If Mr. Utterly talked to her he might persuade her. He would tell her it was an honor. Oh, I could not endure it!" "Mother, that is sheer nonsense!" Mrs. Lister turned a still more direct gaze into her husband's eyes. "It is not your affair. You have nothing to do with it. You had no right to unlock Basil's bureau. You--" she bowed her head on the arm of her chair. "Oh, Thomas, forgive me! I don't know what I'm saying. I think of Richard. I don't care about Basil. I have cherished his memory and I have had only misery and shame. I think about Richard and his children and the good name of my dear father. Don't let us bring this matter to light! I beseech of you, dear Thomas!" Dr. Lister took the hand which sought his. He almost yielded to this desperate pleading. Did anything in the world really matter as much as this? Would Basil's fame survive more than a few generations? Would a publisher even consider the bringing out of the work of a man so long gone? Was it not better that he should remain dead than that his sister's heart should ache? Then Dr. Lister saw in Basil's handwriting certain clear sentences, certain lines of verse. His face crimsoned. "I have shown Basil's compositions in confidence to Scott," said he, firmly. Mary Alcestis began to cry. "He thinks they are admirable, mother." Dr. Lister drew an unwilling head to his shoulder. "My dear, let me take this burden from you. I have taken other burdens, and I should have borne this long ago." "He could see nothing derogatory to Basil in them?" sobbed Mary Alcestis. "Nothing. He would be outraged by such a suggestion. He would arrange them, edit them, and write a life of Basil from the information you gave him and in a certain sense under your direction."