"And you never knew or suspected that he wrote?" "I never heard that he was supposed to have talent of any sort. He was very young." "So was Keats when he wrote 'St. Agnes Eve.' Surely Basil Everman's sister knew about his talent!" "I do not believe she ever knew that he had published any writings." "May I see her?" "I--I will see." Dr. Lister rose, bewildered, and went slowly toward the door. Surely Mary Alcestis could have known nothing of this! The idea that she might have mental reservations was new. He was certain that she would be shocked by this inquiry and he wished that there were time to prepare her for it. He could, if she wished, ask the stranger to come at another time, or he could excuse her entirely. He found her in the hall. He had a fleeting impression that she had been for some time where she stood now, by the stairway with her hand on the newel post. But she came forward at once, her smooth and slightly pale face showing only its usual expression of placid content. "Did you have a rest, mother?" asked Dr. Lister. "Yes," she answered in her steady voice. "All that I needed." "There is a literary man here who comes from a New York magazine who wishes to speak to you." "To me?" repeated Mrs. Lister. It was not a question, real or rhetorical, it was simply a mechanical repetition of her husband's words. "Yes. He wishes, strangely enough, mother, to ask you about some literary work of your brother Basil's." "Of Basil's." Mrs. Lister did not seem so much surprised as benumbed. Dr. Lister was now certain that she had heard the stranger, and had tried, and was still trying, to gather herself together. "He says that your brother sent to his magazine many years ago some remarkable compositions which they published anonymously. Did you know of them?" "He used to write some," said Mrs. Lister in a childish way. "He played some, too, on the piano. No, I didn't know that anything was published." "Will you come out and speak to this gentleman? Do you feel able to speak to him?" Mrs. Lister walked toward the door without answering. She rested her hand for an instant on the door frame and felt for the step with perceptible confusion. If the sunshine looked suddenly dark, and the honeysuckle seemed to exhale a sickly odor, it was not the first time in her life that under like circumstances she had held her head bravely. She had heard every word the stranger had said. If she had put on spectacles of some strange, distorting medium, he could not have looked more monstrous, more frightful to her. She gave him a cold hand because his own hand reached for it, and then sat down.