"Wait one moment," Mr. Gryce here broke in. "You speak of her endeavors to improve herself. What do you mean by that?"
"Her desire to learn things she did n’t know; as, for instance, to write and read writing. She could only clumsily print when she came here."
I thought Mr. Gryce would take a piece out of my arm, he griped it so.
"When she came here! Do you mean to say that since she has been with you she has learned to write?"
"Yes, sir; I used to set her copies and"
"Where are these copies?" broke in Mr. Gryce, subduing his voice to its most professional tone. "And where are her attempts at writing? I’d like to see some of them. Can’t you get them for us?"
"I don’t know, sir. I always made it a point to destroy them as soon as they had answered their purpose. I did n’t like to have such things lying around. But I will go see."
"Do," said he; "and I will go with you. I want to take a look at things upstairs, any way." And, heedless of his rheumatic feet, he rose and prepared to accompany her.
"This is getting very intense," I whispered, as he passed me.
The smile he gave me in reply would have made the fortune of a Thespian Mephistopheles.
Of the ten minutes of suspense which I endured in their absence, I say nothing. At the end of that time they returned with their hands full of paper boxes, which they flung down on the table.
"The writing-paper of the household," observed Mr. Gryce; "every scrap and half-sheet which could be found. But, before you examine it, look at this."
