I could not drive from my mind the vision of that man even when I knew
he was asleep in his bed. There was no way of throwing him off. His wife
had expressed to my grandmother the delight she felt in having him in
the room with her while she worked, and my grandmother had spoken to me
of her own sympathetic pleasure in this arrangement. I saw it would be
impossible to exile him again to the apple-tree, even if the ground
should ever be dry enough. There was no hope that he would be left at
his home; there was no hope that he would get better, and go off to
attend to his own business; there was no hope that he would die.

From dictating but little I fell to dictating almost nothing at all. To
keep my secretary at work, I gave her some notes of travel of which to
make a fair copy, while I occupied myself in wondering what I was going
to do about that malarial husband.

At last I ceased to wonder, and I did something. I went to the city,
and, after a day's hard work, I secured a position for my secretary in a
large publishing establishment, where her husband could sit by a window
in a secluded corner, and keep as quiet as a mouse. The good lady
overwhelmed me with thanks for my kindness. She had begun to fear that,
as the season grew colder, the daily trip would not suit her husband,
and she gave me credit for having thought the same thing.

My grandmother and Walkirk were greatly concerned, as well as surprised,
at what I had done. The former said that, if I attempted to write my
book with my own hand, she feared the sedentary work would tell upon my
health; and my under-study, while regretting very much that his efforts
to provide me with an amanuensis had proved unsuccessful, showed very
plainly, although he did not say so, that he hoped I had found that
authorship was an annoying and unprofitable business, and that I would
now devote myself to pursuits which were more congenial, and in which he
could act for me when occasion required.




IX.

WALKIRK'S IDEA.


Walkirk very soon discovered that I had no intention whatever of giving
up the writing of my book, and I quieted the fears of my grandmother, in
regard to my health, by assuring her that the sedentary work connected
with the production of my volume would not be done by me. Secretaries
could be had, and I would get one.

This determination greatly disturbed Walkirk. He did not wish to see me
perform a service for myself which it was his business to perform for
me, and in which he had failed. I know that he gave the matter the most
earnest consideration, and two days after my late secretary and her
husband had left me he came into my study, his face shining with a new
idea.

"Mr. Vanderley," said he, "to find you an amanuensis who will exactly
suit you, and who will be willing to come here into the country to work,
is, I think you will admit, a very difficult business; but I do not
intend, if I can help it, to be beaten by it. I have thought of a plan
which I believe will meet all contingencies, and I have come to propose
it to you. You know that institution just outside the village,--the
House of Martha?"

I replied that I knew of it.

"Well," he continued, "I did not think of it until a day or two ago, and
I have since been inquiring into its organization and nature. That
sisterhood of Martha is composed of women who propose not only to devote
themselves to a life of goodness, but to imitate the industrious woman
for whom they have named themselves. They work not only in their
establishment, but wherever they can find suitable occupation, and all
that they earn is devoted to the good of the institution. Some of them
act as nurses for the sick,--for pay if people can afford it, for
nothing if they cannot. Others have studied medicine, and practice in
the same way. They also prepare medicines and dispense them, and do a
lot of good things,--if possible, for money and the advantage of the
House of Martha. But every woman who joins such an institution cannot
expect immediately to find the sort of remunerative work she can best
do, and I am informed that there are several women there who, at
present, are unemployed. Now, it is my opinion that among these you
could find half a dozen good secretaries."

I laughed aloud. "Those women," said I, "are just the same as nuns. It
is ridiculous to suppose that one of them would be allowed to come here
as my secretary, even if she wanted to."

"I am not so sure of that," persisted Walkirk; "I do not see why
literary, or rather clerical, pursuits should not be as open to them as
medicine or nursing."

"You may not see it," said I, "but I fancy that they do."

"It is impossible to be certain on that point," he replied, "until we
have proposed the matter to them, and given them the opportunity to
consider it."

"If you imagine," I said, "that I have the effrontery to go to that
nunnery--for it is no more nor less than that--and ask the Lady Abbess
to lend me one of her nuns to write at my dictation, you have very much
mistaken me."

Walkirk smiled. "I hardly expected you to do that," said he, "although I
must insist that it is not a nunnery, and there is no Lady Abbess. There
is a Head Mother, and some sub-mothers, I believe. My idea was that Mrs.
Vanderley should drive over there and make inquiries for you. A
proposition from an elderly lady of such high position in the community
would have a much better effect than if it came from a gentleman."

Walkirk's plan amused me very much, and I told him I would talk to my
grandmother about it. When I did so, I was much surprised to find that
she received the idea with favor.

"That Mr. Walkirk," she said, "is a man of a good deal of penetration
and judgment, and if you could get one of those sisters to come here and
write for you I should like it very much; and if the first one did not
suit, you could try another without trouble or expense. The fact that
you had a good many strings to your bow would give you ease of mind and
prevent your getting discouraged. I don't want you to give up the idea
of having a secretary."

Then, with some hesitation, my good grandmother confided to me that
there was another reason why this idea of employing a sister pleased
her. She had been a little afraid that some lady secretary, especially
like that very pleasant and exemplary person with the invalid husband,
might put the notion into my head that it would be a good thing for me
to have a wife to do my writing. Now, of course she expected me to get
married some day. That was all right, but there was no need of my being
in any hurry about it; and as to my wife doing my writing, that was not
to be counted upon positively. Some wives might not be willing to do it,
and others might not do it well; so, as far as that matter was
concerned, nothing would be gained. But one of those sisters would never
suggest matrimony. They were women apart from all that sort of thing.
They had certain work to do in this world, and they did it for the good
of the cause in which they were enlisted, without giving any thought to
those outside matters which so often occupy the minds of women who have
not, in a manner, separated themselves from the world. She would go that
very afternoon to the House of Martha and make inquiries.




X.

THE PLAN OF SECLUSION.


My grandmother returned from the House of Martha disappointed and
annoyed. Life had always flowed very smoothly for her, and I had rarely
seen her in her present mental condition.

"I do not believe," she said, "that that institution will succeed. Those
women are too narrow-minded. If they were in a regular stone-walled
convent, it would be another thing, but they are only a sisterhood. They
are not shut up there; it's their business and part of their religion to
go out, and why they should not be willing to come here and do good, as
well as anywhere else, I cannot see, for the life of me."

"Then they objected to the proposition?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied, "they did, and without any reason whatever. I saw
their superior, whom they call Mother Anastasia, and from her I learned
that there were several women in the establishment who were thoroughly
competent to act as secretaries; but when I proposed that one of them
should come and write for you, she said that would not do at all. I
reasoned the matter with her: that literature was as high a profession
as medicine, and as much good could be done with the practice of one as
the other; and if the sisters went out to nurse and to cure, they might
just as well go out to write for those who cannot write for themselves.
To that she answered, it was not the writing she objected to,--that was
all well enough,--but it was decidedly outside of the vocation of the
order for one of the sisters to spend her mornings with a young
gentleman. If he were sick and suffering, and had no one else to attend
to him, it would be different. Upon this, I told her that you would be
sick if you were obliged to do your own writing, and therefore I
couldn't see the difference.

"But I must admit she was very good-natured and pleasant about it, and
she told me that if you chose to come to their visitors' room and make
yourself comfortable there, and dictate, one of the sisters would sit at
the table behind the grating and would write for you. I replied that I
did not believe you would like that, but that I would mention it to
you."

I laughed. "So much for Walkirk's brilliant idea," I said. "I fancy
myself going every morning to that nunnery to do my work in their
cheerless visitors' room!"

"Cheerless? I should say so!" exclaimed my grandmother,--"bare floors,
bare walls, and hard wooden chairs. It is not to be thought of."

That evening I informed Walkirk of the ill success of my grandmother's
mission, but to my surprise he did not appear to be discouraged.

"I don't think we need have any trouble at all in managing that affair,"
said he. "Why shouldn't you have a grating put up in the doorway between
your study and the secretary's room? Then the sister could go in there,
the other door could be locked, and she would be as much shut off from
the world as if she were behind a grating in the House of Martha. I
believe, if this plan were proposed to the sisters, it would be agreed
to."

I scouted the idea as utterly absurd; but when, the next morning, I
mentioned it to my grandmother, she caught at it eagerly, and no sooner
had she finished her breakfast than she ordered her carriage and drove
to the House of Martha.

She returned triumphant.

"We had a long discussion," she said, "but Mother Anastasia finally saw
the matter in its proper light. She admitted that if a room could be
arranged in this house, in which a sister could be actually secluded,
there was no good reason why she should not work there as consistently
with their rules as if she were in the House of Martha. Therefore, she
agreed, if you concluded to carry out this plan, to send a sister every
morning to write for you. So now, if you want a secretary from the House
of Martha, you can have one."

To this I replied that I most positively wanted one; and Walkirk was
immediately instructed to have a suitable grating made for the doorway
between my study and the secretary's room.

Nearly a week was required for the execution of this work, and during
this time I took a rest from literary composition and visited some
friends, leaving all the arrangements for my new secretary in the hands
of my grandmother and Walkirk. When I returned, the iron grating was in
its place. It was a neat and artistic piece of work, but I did not like
it. I object decidedly to anything which suggests restraint. The whole
affair of the secretary was indeed very different from what I would have
had it, but I had discovered that even in our advanced era of
civilization one cannot always have everything he wants, albeit he be
perfectly able and willing to pay for it.




XI.

MY NUN.


At nine o'clock on the morning of the appointed day my new secretary
came, accompanied by one of those sisters called by Walkirk sub-mothers.

My grandmother received the two, and conducted them to the secretary's
room. I was sitting in my study, but no attention was paid to me. The
sub-mother advanced to the grating, and, having examined it, appeared
satisfied to find that it was securely fastened in the doorway. The nun,
as I called her, although Walkirk assured me the term was incorrect,
stood with her back toward me, and when her companion had said a few
words to her, in a low tone, she took her seat at the table. She wore a
large gray bonnet, the sides and top of which extended far beyond her
face, a light gray shawl, and a gray gown. She sat facing the window,
with her left side turned toward me, and from no point of my study could
I get a glimpse of her features.

The sub-mother looked out of the window, which opened upon little more
than the once husband-sheltering apple-tree, and then, after a general
glance around the room, she looked at me, and for the first time
addressed me.

"I will come for the sister at twelve o'clock," she said, and with that
she followed my grandmother out of the room, and locked the door behind
her.

I stood and looked through the grating at my new secretary. I am not
generally a diffident man, and have never been so with persons in my
employment; but now, I must admit, I did not feel at my ease. The nun
sat perfectly motionless; her hands were folded in her gray lap, and her
gray bonnet was slightly bowed, so that I did not know whether she was
gazing down at the table or out of the window.

She was evidently ready for work, but I was not. I did not know exactly
how to begin with such a secretary. With the others I had been outspoken
from the first; I had told them what I wanted and what I did not want,
and they had been ready enough to listen and ready enough to answer. But
to this silent, motionless gray figure I did not feel that I could be
outspoken. No words suggested themselves as being appropriate to speak
out. If I could see her face but for a moment, and discover whether she
were old or young, cross-looking or gentle, I might know what to say to
her. My impulse was to tell her there was a hook on which she could hang
her bonnet and shawl, but as I did not know whether or not these sisters
ever took off their bonnets and shawls, I did not feel at liberty to
make this suggestion.

But it would not do to continue there, looking at her. She might be a
very shy person, and if I appeared shy it would probably make her all
the shyer; so I spoke.

"You will find paper," I said, "in the drawer of your table, and there
are pens, of different sorts, in that tray." She opened the drawer, took
out some paper, and selected a pen, all without turning her head toward
me. Having broken the ice, I now felt impelled to deliver a short
lecture on my requirements; but how could I say what I required without
knowing what manner of person it was of whom I required it? I therefore
postponed the lecture, and determined to begin work without further
delay, as probably that would be the best way to put us both at our
ease. But it had been more than two weeks since I had done any work, and
I could not remember what it was that I had been dictating, or
endeavoring to dictate, to the lady with the malarial husband. I
therefore thought it well to begin at a fresh point, and to leave the
gap to be filled up afterward. I felt quite sure, when last at work, I
had been treating of the south of France, and had certainly not reached
Marseilles. I therefore decided to take a header for Marseilles, and
into Marseilles I plunged.

As soon as I began to speak the nun began to write, and having at last
got her at work I felt anxious to keep her at it, and went steadily on
through the lively seaport; touching upon one point after another as
fast as I thought of them, and without regard to their proper sequence.
But although I sometimes skipped from one end of the city to the other,
and from history to street scenes, I dictated steadily, and the nun
wrote steadily. She worked rapidly, and apparently heard and understood
every word I said, for she asked no questions and did not hesitate. I am
sure I never before dictated so continuously. I had been in the habit of
stopping a good deal to think, not only about my work, but about other
things, but now I did not wish to stop.

This amanuensis was very different from any other I had had. The others
worked to make money for themselves, or to please me, or because they
liked it. This one worked from principle. The money which I paid for her
labor did not become her money. It was paid to the House of Martha. She
sat there and wrote to promote the principles upon which the House of
Martha was founded. In fact, so far as I was concerned, she was nothing
more than a principle.

Now, to interfere with the working of a principle is not the right thing
to do, and therefore I felt impelled to keep on dictating, which I did
until the hall door of the secretary's room was unlocked and the
sub-mother walked in. She came forward and said a few words to the nun,
who stopped writing and wiped her pen. The other then turned to me, and
in a low voice asked if the work of the sister was satisfactory. I
advanced to the grating, and answered that I was perfectly satisfied,
and was about to make some remarks, which I hoped would lead to a
conversation, when the sub-mother--whose name I subsequently learned was
Sister Sarah--made a little bow, and, saying if that were the case they
would return at nine the next morning, left the room in company with the
nun. The latter, when she arose from the table, turned her back to me,
and went out without giving me the slightest opportunity of looking into
her cavernous bonnet. This she did, I must admit, in the most natural
way possible, which was probably the result of training, and gave one no
idea of rudeness or incivility.

When they were gone I was piqued, almost angry with myself. I had
intended stopping work a little before noon, in order to talk to that
nun, even if she did not answer or look at me. She should discover that
if she was a principle, I was, at least, an entity. I did not know
exactly what I should say to her, but it would be something one human
being would be likely to say to another human being who was working for
him. If from the first I put myself on the proper level, she might in
time get there. But although I had lost my present chance, she was
coming again the next day.

I entered the secretary's room by the hall door, and looked at the
manuscript which had been left on the table. It was written in an
excellent hand, not too large, very legible, and correctly punctuated.
Everything had been done properly, except that after the first three
pages she had forgotten to number the leaves at the top; but as every
sheet was placed in its proper order, this was an omission which could
be easily rectified. I was very glad she had made it, for it would give
me something to speak to her about.

At luncheon my grandmother asked me how I liked the new secretary, and
added that if she did not suit me I could try another next day. I
answered that so far she suited me, and that I had not the least wish at
present to try another. I think my grandmother was about to say
something regarding this sister, but I instantly begged her not to do
so. I wished to judge her entirely on her merits, I said, and would
rather not hear anything about her until I had come to a decision as to
her abilities. I did not add that I felt such an interest in the
anticipated discovery of the personality of this secretary that I did
not wish that discovery interfered with.

In the evening Walkirk inquired about the sister-amanuensis, but I
merely answered that so far she had done very well, and dropped the
subject. In my own mind I did not drop the subject until I fell asleep
that night. I found myself from time to time wondering what sort of a
woman was that nun. Was she an elderly, sharp-faced creature; was she a
vapid, fat-faced creature, or a young and pleasing creature? And when I
had asked myself these questions, I snubbed myself for taking the
trouble to think about the matter, and then I began wondering again.

But upon one point I firmly made up my mind: the relationship between my
secretary and myself should not continue to be that of an entity
dictating to a principle.




XII.

EZA.


The next day, when the nun and Sister Sarah entered the secretary's
room, I advanced to the grating and bade them good-morning. They both
bowed, and the nun took her seat at the table. Sister Sarah then turned
to me and asked if I had a gold pen, adding that the sister was
accustomed to writing with one. I answered that I had all kinds of pens,
and if the sister wanted a gold one it was only necessary to ask me for
it. I brought several gold pens, and handed them through the grating to
the sub-mother, who gave them to the secretary, and then took her leave,
locking the door behind her. My nun took one of the pens, tried it,
arranged the paper, and sat ready to write. I stood by the grating,
hoping to converse a little, if it should be possible.

"Is there anything else you would like?" I said. "If there is, you know
you must mention it."

She gently shook her head. The idea now occurred to me that perhaps my
nun was dumb; but I almost instantly thought that this could not be, for
dumb people were almost always deaf, and she could hear well enough.
Then it struck me that she might be a Trappist nun, and bound by a vow
of silence; but I reflected that she was not really a nun, and
consequently could not be a Trappist.

Having been unsuccessful in my first attempt to make her speak, and
having now stood silent for some moments, I felt it might be unwise to
make another trial just then, for my object would be too plain. I
therefore sat down and began dictating.

I did not work as easily as I had done on the preceding morning, for I
intended, if possible, to make my nun look at me, or speak, before the
hour of noon, and thinking of this intention prevented me from keeping
my mind upon my work. From time to time I made remarks in regard to the
temperature of the room, the quality of the paper, or something of the
kind. To these she did not answer at all, or slightly nodded, or shook
her head in a deprecatory manner, as if they were matters not worth
considering.

Then I suddenly remembered the omission of the paging, and spoke of
that. In answer she took up the manuscript she had written and paged
every sheet. After this my progress was halting and uneven.
Involuntarily my mind kept on devising plans for making that woman speak
or turn her face toward me. If she would do the latter, I would be
satisfied; and even if she proved to be an unveiled prophetess of
Khorassan, there would be no further occasion for conjectures and
wonderings, and I could go on with my work in peace. But it made me
nervous to remain silent, and see that nun sitting there, pen in hand,
but motionless as a post, and waiting for me to give her the signal to
continue the exercise of the principle to which her existence was now
devoted.

I went on with my dictation. I had left Marseilles, had touched slightly
upon Nice, and was now traveling by carriage on the Cornice Road to
Mentone. "It was on this road," I dictated, "that an odd incident
occurred to me. We were nearly opposite the old robber village of"--and
then I hesitated and stopped. I could not remember the name of the
village. I walked up and down my study, rubbing my forehead, but the
name would not recur to me. I was just thinking that I would have to go
to the library and look up the name of the village, when from out of the
depths of the nun's bonnet there came a voice, low but distinct, and, I
thought, a little impatient, and it said, "Eza."

"Eza! of course!" I exclaimed,--"certainly it is Eza! How could I have
forgotten it? I am very much obliged to you for reminding me of the name
of that village. Perhaps you have been there?"

In answer to this question I received the least little bit of a nod, and
the nun's pen began gently to paw the paper, as if it wanted to go on.

I was now really excited. She had spoken. Why should I not do something
which should make her turn her face toward me,--something which would
take her off her guard, as my forgetfulness had just done? But no idea
came to my aid, and I felt obliged to begin to dictate the details of
the odd incident, when suddenly the door opened, Sister Sarah walked in,
and the morning's work was over.

I had not done much, but I had made that nun speak. She said "Eza." That
was a beginning, and I felt confident that I should get on very well in
time. I was a little sorry that my secretary had been on the Cornice
Road. I fancied that she might have been one of those elderly single
women who become Baedeker tourists, and, having tired of this sort of
thing, had concluded to devote her life to the work of the House of
Martha. But this was mere idle conjecture. She had spoken, and I should
not indulge in pessimism.

I prepared a very good remark with which to greet the sub-mother on the
next morning, and, although addressing Sister Sarah, I would be in
reality speaking to my nun. I would say how well I was getting on. I had
thought of saying _we_ were getting on, but reflected afterward that
this would never do; I was sure that the House of Martha would not
allow, under any circumstances, that sister and myself to constitute a
_we_. Then I would refer to the help my secretary had been to me, and
endeavor to express the satisfaction which an author must always feel
for a suggestion of this kind, or any other, from one qualified to make
them. If there was any gratitude or vanity in my nun's heart, I felt I
could stir it up, if Sister Sarah would listen to me long enough; and if
gratitude, or even vanity, could be stirred, the rigidity of my nun
would be impaired, and she might find herself off her guard.

But I had no opportunity of making my remark. At nine o'clock the door
of the secretary's room opened, the nun entered, and the door was then
closed and locked. Sister Sarah must have been in a hurry that morning.
Just as well as not I might have made my remark directly to my nun, but
I did not. She walked quickly to the table, arranged her paper, opened
her inkstand, and sat down. I fancied that I saw a wavy wriggle of
impatience in her shawl. Perhaps she wanted to know the rest of that odd
incident near Eza. It may have been that it was impatient interest which
had impaired her rigidity the day before.

I went on with the odd incident, and made a very good thing of it. Even
when on well-worn routes of travel, I tried to confine myself to
out-of-the-way experiences. Walkirk had been very much interested in
this affair when I had told it to him, and there was no reason why this
nun should not also be interested, especially as she had seen Eza.

I finished the narrative, and began another, a rather exciting one,
connected with the breaking of a carriage wheel and an exile from Monte
Carlo; but never once did curiosity or any other emotion impair the
rigidity of that nun. She wrote almost as fast as I could dictate, and
when I stopped I know she was filled with nervous desire to know what
was coming next,--at least I fancied that her shawl indicated such
nervousness; but hesitate as I might, or say what I might,--and I did
say a good many things which almost demanded a remark or answer,--not
one word came from her during the whole morning, nor did she ever turn
the front of her bonnet toward me.




XIII.

MY FRIEND VESPA.


I was very much disgusted at the present state of affairs. Three days
had elapsed, and I did not know what sort of a human being my secretary
was. I might as well dictate into a speaking-tube. A phonograph would be
better; for although it might seem ridiculous to sit in my room and talk
aloud to no one, what was I doing now? That nun was the same as no one.

The next day was Sunday, and there would be no work, and no chance to
solve the problem, which had become an actual annoyance to me; but I did
not intend that this problem should continue to annoy me and interfere
with my work. I am open and aboveboard myself, and if my secretary did
not choose to be open and aboveboard, and behave like an ordinary human
being, she should depart, and I would tell Walkirk to get me an ordinary
human being, capable of writing from dictation, or depart himself. If he
could not provide me with a suitable secretary, he was not the efficient
man of business that he claimed to be. As to the absurdity of dictating
to a mystery in a barrow bonnet, I would have no more of it.

I do not consider myself an ill-tempered person, and my grandmother
asserts that I have a very good temper indeed; but I must admit that on
Monday morning I felt a little cross, and when Sister Sarah and the nun
entered my antechamber I bade them a very cold good-morning, and allowed
the former to go without attempting any conversation whatever. The nun
having arrived, I would not send her away; but when the sub-mother came
at noon, I intended to inform her that I did not any longer desire the
services of the writing sister, and if she wished to know why I should
tell her plainly. I would not say that I would as soon dictate to an
inanimate tree-stump, but I would express that idea in as courteous
terms as possible.

For fifteen minutes I let the nun sit and wait. If her principles
forbade idleness, I was glad to have a crack at her principles. Then I
began to dictate steadily and severely. I found that the dismissal from
my mind of all conjectures regarding the personality of my secretary was
of great service to me, and I was able to compose much faster than she
could write.

It was about half past ten, I think, and the morning was warm and
pleasant, when there gently sailed into the secretary's room, through
the open window, a wasp. I saw him come in, and I do not think I ever
beheld a more agreeable or benignant insect. His large eyes were filled
with the light of a fatherly graciousness. His semi-detached body seemed
to quiver with a helpful impulse, and his long hind legs hung down
beneath him as though they were outstretched to assist, befriend, or
succor. With wings waving blessings and a buzz of cheery greeting, he
sailed around the room, now dipping here, now there, and then circling
higher, tapping the ceiling with his genial back.

The moment the nun saw the wasp, a most decided thrill ran down the back
of her shawl. Then it pervaded her bonnet, and finally the whole of her.
As the beneficent insect sailed down near the table, she abruptly sprang
to her feet and pushed back her chair. I advanced to the grating, but
what could I do? Seeing me there, and doubtless with the desire
immediately to assure me of his kindly intentions, my friend Vespa made
a swoop directly at the front of the nun's bonnet.

With an undisguised ejaculation, and beating wildly at the insect with
her hands, the nun bounded to one side and turned her face full upon me.
I stood astounded. I forgot the wasp.

I totally lost sight of the fact that a young woman was in danger of
being badly stung. I thought of nothing but that she was a young woman,
and a most astonishingly pretty one besides.

The state of terror she was in opened wide her lovely blue eyes, half
crimsoned her clear white skin, and threw her rosy lips and sparkling
teeth into the most enchanting combinations.

"Make it go away!" she cried, throwing up one arm, and thereby pushing
back her gray bonnet, and exhibiting some of the gloss of her light
brown hair. "Can't you kill it?"

Most gladly would I have rushed in, and shed with my own hands the blood
of my friend Vespa, for the sake of this most charming young woman,
suddenly transformed from a barrow-bonneted principle. But I was
powerless. I could not break through the grating; the other door of the
secretary's room was locked.

"Don't strike at it," I said; "remain as motionless as you can, then
perhaps it will fly away. Striking at a wasp only enrages it."

"I can't stay quiet," she cried; "nobody could!" and she sprang behind
the table, making at the same time another slap at the buzzing insect.

"You will surely be stung," I said, "if you act in that way. If you will
slap at the wasp, don't use your hand; take something with which you can
kill it."

"What can I take?" she exclaimed, now running round the table, and
stopping close to the grating. "Give me something."

I hurriedly glanced around my study. I saw nothing that would answer for
a weapon but a whisk broom, which I seized, and endeavored to thrust
through the meshes of the grating.

"Oh!" she cried, as the wasp made a desperate dive close to her face,
"give me that, quick!" and she stretched out her hand to me.

"I cannot," I replied; "I can't push it through. It won't go through.
Take your bonnet."

At this, my nun seized her bonnet by a sort of floating hood which hung
around the bottom of it and jerked it from her head, bringing with it
certain flaps and ligatures and combs, which, being thus roughly
removed, allowed a mass of wavy hair to fall about her shoulders.

Waving her bonnet in her hand, like a slung-shot, she sprang back and
waited for the wasp. When the buzzing creature came near enough, she
made a desperate crack at him, missing him; she struck again and again,
now high, now low; she dashed from side to side of the room, and with
one of her mad sweeps she scattered a dozen pages of manuscript upon the
floor.

The view of this combat was enrapturing to me; the face of my nun, now
lighted by a passionate determination to kill that wasp, was a delight
to my eyes. If I could have assured myself that the wasp would not sting
her, I would have helped him to prolong the battle indefinitely. But my
nun was animated by very different emotions. She was bound to be avenged
upon the wasp, and avenged she was. Almost springing into the air, she
made a grand stroke at him, as he receded from her, hit him, and dashed
him against the wall. He fell to the floor, momentarily disabled, but
flapping and buzzing. Then down she stooped, and with three great whacks
with her bonnet she finished the battle. The wasp lay motionless.

"Now," she said, throwing her bonnet upon the table, "I will close that
window;" and she walked across the room, her blue eyes sparkling, her
face glowing from her violent exercise, and her rich brown hair hanging
in long waves upon her shoulders.

"Don't do that," I said; "it will make your room too warm. There is a
netting screen in the corner there. If you put that under the sash, it
will keep out all insects. I wish I could do it for you."

She took the frame and fitted it under the sash.

"I am sorry I did not know that before," she said, as she returned to
her table; "this is a very bad piece of business."

I begged her to excuse me for not having informed her of the screen, but
I did not say that I was sorry for what had occurred. I merely expressed
my gratification that she had not been stung. Her chair had been pushed
away from the table, its back against the wall, opposite to me. She
seated herself upon it, gently panting. She looked from side to side at
the sheets of manuscript scattered upon the floor.

"I will pick them up presently and go to work, but I must rest a
minute." She did not now seem to consider that it was of the slightest
consequence whether I saw her face or not.

"Never mind the papers," I said; "leave them there; they can be picked
up any time."

"I wish that were the worst of it;" and as she spoke she raised her eyes
toward me, and the least little bit of a smile came upon her lips, as
if, though troubled, she could not help feeling the comical absurdity of
the situation.

"It is simply dreadful," she continued. "I don't believe such a thing
ever before happened to a sister."

"There is nothing dreadful about it," said I; "and do you mean to say
that the sisters of the House of Martha, who go out to nurse, and do all
sorts of good deeds, never speak to the people they are befriending, nor
allow them to look upon their faces?"

"Of course," said she, "you have to talk to sick people; otherwise how
could you know what they need? But this is a different case;" and she
began to gather up her hair and twist it at the back of her head.

"I do not understand," I remarked; "why is it a different case?"

"It is as different as it can be," said she, picking up her comb from
the floor and thrusting it through her hastily twisted knot of hair. "I
should not have come here at all if your grandmother had not positively
asserted that there would be nothing for me to do but to listen and to
write. And Mother Anastasia and Sister Sarah both of them especially
instructed me that I was not to speak to you nor to look at you, but
simply to sit at the table and work for the good of the cause. That was
all I had to do; and I am sure I obeyed just as strictly as anybody
could, except once, when you forgot the name of Eza, and I was so
anxious to have you go on with the incident that I could not help
mentioning it. And now, I am sure I don't know what I ought to do."

"Do?" I asked. "There is nothing to do except to begin writing where you
left off. The wasp is dead."

"I wish it had never been born," she said. "I have no doubt that the
whole affair should come to an end now, and that I ought to go home; but
I can't do that until Sister Sarah comes to unlock the door, and so I
suppose we had better go to work."

"We"! I would not have dared to use that word, but it fell from her lips
in the easiest and most conventional manner possible. It was delightful
to hear it. I never knew before what a pleasant sound the word had. She
now set herself to work to gather up the papers from the floor, and,
having arranged them in their proper order, she took up her bonnet.

"Do you have to wear that?" I asked.

"Certainly," she answered, clapping it on and pulling it well forward.

"I should think it would be very hot and uncomfortable," I remarked.

"It is," she admitted curtly; and, seating herself at the table, she
took up her pen.

I now perceived that if I knew what was good for myself I would cease
from speaking on ordinary topics, and go on with my dictation. This I
did, giving out my sentences as rapidly as possible, although I must
admit I took no interest whatever in what I was saying, nor do I believe
that my secretary was interested in the subject-matter of my work. She
wrote rapidly, and, as well as I could judge, appeared excited and
annoyed. I was excited also, but not in the least disturbed. My emotions
were of a highly pleasing character. We worked steadily for some twenty
minutes, when suddenly she stopped and laid down her pen.

"Of course it isn't right to speak," she said, turning in her chair and
speaking to me face to face, as one human being to another, "but as I
have said so much already, I don't suppose a little more will make
matters worse, and I must ask somebody's help in making up my mind what
I ought to do. I suspect I have made all sorts of mistakes in this
writing, but I could not keep my thoughts on my work. I have been trying
my best to decide how I ought to act, but I cannot make up my mind."

"I shall be delighted to help you, if I can," I ventured. "What's the
point that you cannot decide?"

"It is just this," she replied, fixing her blue eyes upon me with
earnest frankness: "am I to tell the sisters what has happened or not?
If I tell them, I know exactly what will be the result: I shall come
here no more, and I shall have to take Sister Hannah's place at the
Measles Refuge. There's nothing in this world that I hate like measles.
I've had them, but that doesn't make the slightest difference. Sister
Hannah has asked to be relieved, and I know she wants this place
dreadfully."

"She cannot come here!" I exclaimed. "I don't believe I ever had the
measles, and I will not have them."

"She is a stenographer," said she, "and she will most certainly be
ordered to take my place if I make known what I have done to-day."

"Supposing you were sure that you were not obliged to go to the Measles
Refuge," I asked, "should you still regret giving up this position?"

"Of course I should," she answered promptly. "I must work at something,
or I cannot stay in the House of Martha; and there is no work which I
like so well as this. It interests me extremely."

"Now hear me," said I, speaking perhaps a little too earnestly, "and I
do not believe any one could give you better advice than I am going to
give you. What has occurred this morning was strictly and absolutely an
accident. A wasp came in at the window and tried to sting you; and there
is no woman in the world, be she a sister or not, who could sit still
and let a wasp sting her."

"No," she interrupted, "I don't believe Mother Anastasia could do it."

"And what followed," I continued, "was perfectly natural, and could not
possibly be helped. You were obliged to defend yourself, and in so doing
you were obliged to act just as any other woman would act. Nothing else
would have been possible, and the talking and all that came in with the
rest. You couldn't help it."

"That's the way the matter appeared to me," said she; "but the question
would arise, if it were all right, why should I hesitate to tell the
sisters?"

"Hesitate!" I exclaimed. "You should not even think of such a thing. No
matter what the sisters really thought about it, I am sure they would
not let you come here any more, and you would be sent to the measles
institution, and thus actually be punished for the attempted wickedness
of a wasp."

"But there is the other side of the matter," said she; "would it not be
wicked in me not to tell them?"

"Not at all," I replied. "You do not repeat to the sisters all that I
tell you to write?"

"Of course not," she interrupted.

"And you do not consider it your duty," I continued, "to relate every
detail of the business in which you are employed?"

"No," she said. "They ask me some things, and some things I have
mentioned to them, such as not having a gold pen."

"Very good," said I. "You should consider that defending yourself
against wasps is just as much your business here as anything else. If
you are stung, it is plain you can't write, and the interests of your
employer and of the House of Martha must suffer."

"Yes," she assented, still with the steady gaze of her blue eyes.

"Now your duty is clear," I went on. "If the sisters ask you if a wasp
flew into your room and tried to sting you, and you had to jump around
and kill it, and speak, before you could go on with your work, why, of
course you must tell them; but if they don't ask you, don't tell them.
It may seem ridiculous to you," I continued hurriedly, "to suppose that
they would ask such a question, but I put it in this way to show you the
principle of the thing."

She withdrew her eyes from my face, and fixed them upon the floor.

"The truth of the matter is," she said presently, "that I haven't done
anything wrong; at least I didn't intend to. I might have crouched down
in the corner, with my face to the wall, and have covered my head and
hands with my shawl, but I should have been obliged to stay there until
Sister Sarah came, and I should have been smothered to death; and
besides, I didn't think of it; so what I did do was the only thing I
could do, and I do not think I ought to be punished for it."

"Now it is settled," I said. "Your duty is to work here for the benefit
of your sisterhood, and you should not allow a wasp or any insect to
interfere with it."

She looked at me, and smiled a little abstractedly. Then she turned to
the table.

"I will go on with my work," she said, "and I will not say anything to
the sisters until I have given the matter most earnest and careful
consideration. I can do that a great deal better at home than I can
here."

It was very well that she stopped talking and applied herself to her
work, for I do not believe it was ten minutes afterward when Sister
Sarah unlocked the door, and came in to take her away.




XIV.

I FAVOR PERMANENCY IN OFFICE.


As soon as my secretary had gone I went into her room and looked for my
friend Vespa. I found him on the floor, quite dead, but not demolished.
Picking him up and carrying him to my study, I carefully gummed him to a
card. Under his motionless form I wrote, "The good services of this
friend I shall ever keep in grateful remembrance." Then I pinned the
card to the wall between two bookcases.

During the rest of that day I found myself in a state of unreasonable
exaltation. Several times I put to myself the questions: Why is it that
you feel so cheerful and so gay? Why have you the inclination to whistle
and to dance in your room? Why do you light a cigar, and let it go out
through forgetfulness? Why do you answer your grandmother at random, and
feel an inclination to take a long walk by yourself, although you know
there are people invited to an afternoon tea?

I was not able to give an adequate answer to these questions, nor did I
very much care to. I knew that my high spirits were caused by the
discoveries the good Vespa had enabled me to make, and the fact that
this reason could not be proved adequate did not trouble me at all; but
prudence and a regard for my own interests made it very plain to me that
other people should not know I had been exalted, and how. If I desired
my nun to continue as my secretary, I must not let any one know that I
cared in the least to hear her voice, or to have the front of her bonnet
turned towards me.

At dinner, that day, my grandmother remarked to me:--

"Are you still satisfied with the House of Martha's sister? Does she do
your work as you wish to have it done?"

I leaned back in my chair, and answered with deliberation:--

"Yes, I think she will do very well, and that after more practice she
will do better. As it is, she is industrious and attentive. I place
great stress upon that point, for I do not like to repeat my sentences;
but she has a quick ear, and catches every word."

"Then," asked my grandmother, "you do not wish to make a change at
present?"

"Oh, no," I said; "it would be very annoying to begin again with a new
amanuensis. I am getting accustomed to this person, and that is a very
important matter with me. So I do not wish to make any change so long as
this sister does her work properly."

"I must say," resumed my grandmother, after a little pause, in which she
seemed to be considering the subject, "that I was not altogether in
favor of that young woman taking the position of your secretary. She can
have had but little experience, and I thought that an older and steadier
person would answer your purpose much better; but this one was
unemployed at the time, and wished very much to do literary work; and as
the institution needed the money you would pay, which would probably
amount to a considerable sum if your book should be a long one, and as
you were in a great hurry, and might engage some one from the city if
one of the Martha sisters were not immediately available, Mother
Anastasia and I concluded that it would be well to send this young
person until one of the older sisters, competent for the work, should be
disengaged. I thought you would be very anxious to have this change made
as soon as possible, so that you might feel that you had a permanent
secretary."

"Oh, no," said I, trying very hard not to appear too much in earnest.
"This person is very steady, and there is a certain advantage in her
being young, without much experience as a secretary. I wish any one who
writes for me to work in my way; and if such a person has been
accustomed to work in other people's ways, annoyance and interruption
must surely result, and that I wish very much to avoid. A secretary
should be a mere writing-machine, and I do not believe an elderly person
could be that. She would be sure to have notions how my work should or
should not be done, and in some way or other would make those notions
evident."

"I don't quite agree with you," said my grandmother, "but of course you
know your own business better than I do; and I suppose, after all, it
doesn't make much difference whether the sister is young or not. They
all dress alike, and all look ugly alike. I don't suppose there would be
anything attractive about the Venus de Milo, if she wore a coal-scuttle
bonnet and a gray woolen shawl."

"No," I answered, "especially if she kept the opening of her
coal-scuttle turned down over her paper, as if she were about to empty
coals upon it."

"That's very proper," said my grandmother, speaking a little more
briskly. "All she has to do is to keep her eyes on her work, and I
suppose, from what you say, that the flaps of her bonnet do not
interfere with her keeping her ears on you. But if at any time you
desire to make a change, all you have to do is to let me know, and I can
easily arrange the matter."

I promised that I would certainly let her know in case I had such a
desire.

That evening Walkirk remarked to me that he thought nothing could be
more satisfactory for me than to have on tap, so to speak, an
institution like the House of Martha, from which I could draw a
secretary whenever I wanted one, and keep her for as long or as short a
time as pleased me; and to have this supply in the immediate
neighborhood was an extraordinary advantage.

I agreed that the arrangement was a very good one; and I think he was
about to ask some questions in regard to my nun, but I began my recital,
and cut off any further conversation on the subject.

My monologue was rather disjointed that evening, for my mind was
occupied with other things, or, more strictly speaking, another thing. I
felt quite sure, however, that Walkirk did not notice my preoccupation,
for he gave the same earnest and interested attention to my descriptions
which he had always shown, and which made him such an agreeable and
valuable listener. Indeed, his manner put me at my ease, because, on
account of the wandering of my mind, his general expression indicated
that, if I found it necessary to pause in order that I might arrange
what I should say next, he was very glad of the opportunity thus given
him to reflect upon what I had just said. He was an admirable listener.