I was nettled by her insight. "You have bestowed so much of your kind attention upon me that I feel your debtor," I said, conventionally. "It may be that there is something I can do for you--connected, possibly, with that little box?" It was impertinent, but it was true; for she answered, "Yes." I smiled, but her eyes were cast down and she did not see the smile. "What I have to show you is a manuscript," she said after a pause which I did not break; "it is a drama. I thought that perhaps you would read it." "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.