"It made the woman dissatisfied with the cold clod she was living with; and if I had not let my duty rule me there might have been a scandal, and then my day of usefulness would have been gone." "Yes; I suppose that a preacher must necessarily look upon a woman as a sort of trap door. He may recover from the disgrace of wine, but woman--" I glanced toward the bench, to find Mrs. Estell engaged in the very human act of rubbing her eyes. I did not wait to finish the sentence, but stepped off briskly; and, looking round before she recognized my coming, I saw that Washington had dropped his dignity and was bending among the flowers. She was not startled when she saw me; she did not even show surprise, for my odd-hour presence had become commonplace. "I'm glad you came," she said in quiet frankness, and with a smile of welcome. "Sit down. Isn't it a sleepy day?" "Yes. And even the soft air is gently snoring among the leaves," I replied, rather pleased with the fancy. "Don't talk that way," she said. "You'll put me to sleep again." She turned her face away to hide a yawn. "Have you begun work on your play?" "Well, yes, I have taken some very important steps. Day before yesterday I got some paper, got a pint of ink yesterday, and I expect to get a box of pens to-day." "Oh, you are making great progress. You are going to let me read it, I suppose?" "Yes, after I've had it typewritten." "Oh, I won't want to read it then--all the character of the work will be gone--I couldn't find any of your moods and troubles in it; couldn't tell where it was easy nor where you got stuck. I always think that handwriting holds something for me alone, but a typewritten thing is intended for everybody. The other day I got a typewritten letter from Mr. Estell, and I sent it back to him without reading it. Of course, he had to dictate it. And he sent an apology by the next mail." "Also dictated?" I asked. "It would have been just like him," she laughed, "but it was scratched with a pen. I hate anything that's dictated; I actually hate it. Some time ago I read that a favorite author of mine dictated his books or worked the typewriter himself, and since then I can't read him. It seems to me that the mellowest work was done by the poets when they wrote with a quill. Imagine Byron setting fire to a page with a typewriter!" There was the humor of scorn in her "glad eyes" as she looked up at me. "So, if I am to read your play, it must not be when the typewriter has hammered _you_ out of it," she said. "I will read it to you. How will that do?" "From the original sheets? That will do; that is, if you want to. I don't want you to feel that it's a duty." "Oh, no; it will be a pleasure. The path of duty is too straight for me." "It's the winding path that leads to the sweetest flowers," she said, with a motion of her hand toward a clump of roses not far away.