“I'll do anything I can, Mr. Tembarom,” she answered, and as his face had grown flushed by this time she looked anxious. “You look downright feverish.” “I've got chills as well as fever,” he said. “It's the page. It seems like I was going to fall down on it.” She turned back at once. “No you won't, Mr. Tembarom,” she said “I'm just right-down sure you won't.” They went down to the parlor again, and though there were people in it, they found a corner apart, and in less than ten minutes he had told her what had happened. She took the manuscript he handed to her. “If I was well educated, I should know how to help you,” she said, “but I've only been to a common Manchester school. I don't know anything about elegant language. What are these?” pointing to the blue-pencil marks. Tembarom explained, and she studied the blue slashes with serious attention. “Well,” she said in a few minutes, laying the manuscript down, “I should have cut those words out myself if--if you'd asked me which to take away. They're too showy, Mr. Tembarom.” Tembarom whipped a pencil out of his pocket and held it out. “Say,” he put it to her, “would you take this and draw it through a few of the other showy ones?” “I should feel as if I was taking too much upon myself,” she said. “I don't know anything about it.” “You know a darned sight more than I do,” Tembarom argued. “I didn't know they were showy. I thought they were the kind you had to put in newspaper stuff.” She held the sheets of paper on her knee, and bent her head over them. Tembarom watched her dimples flash in and out as she worked away like a child correcting an exercise. Presently he saw she was quite absorbed. Sometimes she stopped and thought, pressing her lips together; sometimes she changed a letter. There was no lightness in her manner. A badly mutilated stocking would have claimed her attention in the same way. “I think I'd put 'house' there instead of 'mansion' if I were you,” she suggested once. “Put in a whole block of houses if you like,” he answered gratefully. “Whatever you say goes. I believe Galton would say the same thing.” She went over sheet after sheet, and though she knew nothing about it, she cut out just what Galton would have cut out. She put the papers together at last and gave them back to Tembarom, getting up from her seat. “I must go back to father now,” she said. “I promised to make him a good cup of coffee over the little oil-stove. If you'll come and knock at the door I'll give you one. It will help you to keep fresh while you work.” Tembarom did not go to bed at all that night, and he looked rather fagged the next morning when he handed back the “stuff” entirely rewritten. He swallowed several times quite hard as he waited for the final verdict. “You did catch on to what I didn't want,” Galton said at last. “You will catch on still more as you get used to the work. And you did get the 'stuff'.” “That--you mean--that goes?” Tembarom stammered.