She shuddered. “No,” she replied, “I could not. But _I_ couldn't think WHAT to do, and you could. Yes, and did it, and made me do it.” The chin lifted still more and the Speranza chest began to expand. Helen's next remark was in the natures of a reducer for the said expansion. “If you could be so prompt and strong and--and energetic then,” she said, “I can't help wondering why you aren't like that all the time. I had begun to think you were just--just--” “Lazy, eh?” he suggested. “Why--why, no-o, but careless and indifferent and with not much ambition, certainly. You had talked so much about writing and yet you never tried to write anything, that--that--” “That you thought I was all bluff. Thanks! Any more compliments?” She turned on him impulsively. “Oh, don't!” she exclaimed. “Please don't! I know what I am saying sounds perfectly horrid, and especially now when you have just saved me from being badly hurt, if not killed. But don't you see that--that I am saying it because I am interested in you and sure you COULD do so much if you only would? If you would only try.” This speech was a compound of sweet and bitter. Albert characteristically selected the sweet. “Helen,” he asked, in his most confidential tone, “would you like to have me try and write something? Say, would you?” “Of course I would. Oh, will you?” “Well, if YOU asked me I might. For your sake, you know.” She stopped and stamped her foot impatiently. “Oh, DON'T be silly!” she exclaimed. “I don't want you to do it for my sake. I want you to do it for your own sake. Yes, and for your grandfather's sake.” “My grandfather's sake! Great Scott, why do you drag him in? HE doesn't want me to write poetry.” “He wants you to do something, to succeed. I know that.” “He wants me to stay here and help Labe Keeler and Issy Price. He wants me to spend all my life in that office of his; that's what HE wants. Now hold on, Helen! I'm not saying anything against the old fellow. He doesn't like me, I know, but--” “You DON'T know. He does like you. Or he wants to like you very much indeed. He would like to have you carry on the Snow Company's business after he has gone, but if you can't--or won't--do that, I know he would be very happy to see you succeed at anything--anything.” Albert laughed scornfully. “Even at writing poetry?” he asked. “Why, yes, at writing; although of course he doesn't know a thing about it and can't understand how any one can possibly earn a living that way. He has read or heard about poets and authors starving in garrets and he thinks they're all like that. But if you could only show him and prove to him that you could succeed by writing, he would be prouder of you than any one else would be. I know it.” He regarded her curiously. “You seem to know a lot about my grandfather,” he observed.