"But perhaps he will not be pleased,—Mr. Harwell, I mean—with the intrusion of a stranger into his work."
She opened her eyes with astonishment. "That makes no difference," she cried. "Mr. Harwell is in my pay, and has nothing to say about it. But he will not object. I have already consulted him, and he expresses himself as satisfied with the arrangement."
"Very well," said I; "then I will promise to consider the subject. I can at any rate look over the manuscript and give you my opinion of its condition."
"Oh, thank you," said she, with the prettiest gesture of satisfaction. "How kind you are, and what can I ever do to repay you? But would you like to see Mr. Harwell himself?" and she moved towards the door; but suddenly paused, whispering, with a short shudder of remembrance: "He is in the library; do you mind?"
Crushing down the sick qualm that arose at the mention of that spot, I replied in the negative.
"The papers are all there, and he says he can work better in his old place than anywhere else; but if you wish, I can call him down."
But I would not listen to this, and myself led the way to the foot of the stairs.
"I have sometimes thought I would lock up that room," she hurriedly observed; "but something restrains me. I can no more do so than I can leave this house; a power beyond myself forces me to confront all its horrors. And yet I suffer continually from terror. Sometimes, in the darkness of the night— But I will not distress you. I have already said too much; come," and with a sudden lift of the head she mounted the stairs.
