Dr. Lister read the "Times" and "Public Opinion" until he heard 'Manda setting the dinner-table. Then he folded his papers, glanced out through the pleasant medium of dim green light under his awning, raised his arms above his head in a motion which relieved cramped muscles, yawned, and wondered about Mary Alcestis. Reproaching himself because he had not gone directly to her side when he came in, he went upstairs.

He found her door closed and upon listening with his ear against the frame, felt confident that he heard a gentle breathing. He opened the door, holding the knob so that it should make no noise, and looked into the darkened room. When his vision reached the bedspread, turned down over the bed's foot, he withdrew. What Mary Alcestis needed was sleep. She needed also absence from these familiar scenes. He determined that he would propose a journey, much as he disliked leaving his pleasant home in summer. They might go and bring Richard home, all returning by way of Niagara Falls; they might even take him directly to New York and see him settled there. By next summer he would look back on his miseries with astonishment at himself. Youth was so resilient; it changed and forgot, thank God! Tiptoeing downstairs Dr. Lister ate his dinner, still more reassured by 'Manda's statement that her mistress had given orders early in the morning that she was not to be disturbed.

As he sat alone at his meal, he thought of Basil who had so often sat here looking over the broad meadow toward the creek where he, like Richard, had fished when he was a little boy. How pleasant it was to be safe and alive, with friends, bodily comforts, good books; how dreadful to be struck down, cut off from life and sunshine and work. How sad to be forgotten, to have no place in the memory of man, even in the minds of one's contemporaries. His thoughts turned from Basil's life to his own. What had he done to be remembered except by a few persons connected with him by ties of blood? A few short texts edited, a few boys and girls taught a little Greek! Alas, during the most of his adult years he had been satisfied to get merely his academic work done and to make no further effort. This house, he believed, with all its soft comforts had been bad for him; he had had so many more plans, so many high ambitions when he was a struggling young man, before Mary Alcestis had begun to pillow his existence. He saw once more Basil in this quiet house. How he must have filled it with unrest and discontent!

When he had finished his dinner, he went to his wife's door. Again he was certain of the breathing which was restoring her to herself.

As he descended the stairs he heard a strange and startling sound, a loud, thin twang metallic and musical. He had forgotten that the old piano gave occasional expression to a complaint over the misery and dreariness of age and felt for an instant his flesh creep. Then, smiling at himself, he went on to his study.

But he could not read. The musical vibration lingered in the air, disturbing him. He even walked into the parlor and laid his hand on the red cover of Basil's old piano. He hoped that it would make no such sound again, he felt that it would disturb him greatly. He walked about uneasily and then returned to his study and got out of the lower drawer of his desk some old notes. He had once made plans for a translation of the "Medea," he had even begun it—was it now too late to snatch a little fame from the passing years? He turned over his old notes eagerly, then more slowly. But his taste had changed as had his handwriting and the lines seemed stiff, the whole stilted and poor. Young faces seemed to smile at him. Poetry, even in translation, was for the Basils and not for him. Medea did not companion with Mary Alcestis! He lay down to his afternoon nap.

At four o'clock he woke with a start. He had been wandering in a deep cave and great waters fell and rushed about him. Sometimes delicious peace and coolness encircled him; again he struggled in a steaming bath. Rousing, he remembered suddenly that he was a man of family with a sick wife whom he had not seen for a good many hours. He went rapidly toward the stairway and for the third time approached the closed door. This time he did not stop to listen, but rapped and turned the knob. To his astonishment, Mary Alcestis was not there. Moreover, the covers lay over the foot of the bed just as they had lain in the morning, and he saw now that the drapery was not merely the spread, but sheet and blanket as well. Was it possible that the bed could have been empty when he looked before?

At once he went from room to room. She had doubtless sought greater coolness in another spot. Richard's room—she was not there, one guestroom, another—she was nowhere. He remembered the attic and went toward the steps.

"Mary Alcestis!" he called.

The echoes of his own voice answered him. She could not be so mad as to sit in Basil's room on a day like this! He took the steps in bounds.

He found her on Basil's bed. Her eyes were open and she greeted him with a feeble smile.

"I called you, Thomas, but I guess you didn't hear."

"Why, Mary Alcestis! What are you doing here? How long have you been here?"

"Not so very long." The statement was true so far as Mary Alcestis knew. She thought that she had slept a little while. "I came up to get something I wanted and I found I hadn't strength to get back. You will help me, won't you?"

Dr. Lister lifted the window and thrust open the shutter, pushing hard to free it from the vines. It was like an oven out of doors, but the air there was at least better than this!

"I am afraid the flies will come in, Thomas," protested Mary Alcestis in a stronger voice.

"Let them!" said Dr. Lister. "Of course I didn't hear you! I have been again and again to your door and I thought you were asleep and that sleep was the best medicine for you. Come, my dear, you must try to get downstairs at once. This atmosphere is enough to sicken a well person."

"I—I came up on an errand. I didn't mean to stay long." Mary Alcestis's eyes sought the bureau. Had she closed the drawer? "Then I grew faint, I guess, from the heat. If I had a little food I would feel stronger, then I could walk downstairs. Does 'Manda have lunch ready?"

Dr. Lister's eyes had followed her glance, had seen the slightly open drawer, the key in the lock. It was easy to guess the nature of her employment, the old mournful, brooding inspection of Basil's property! He saw also a scrap of paper on the floor. Had Basil left papers?

"Lunch is over," said he. "Mary Alcestis—" but this was not the time for questioning. He went down to the kitchen and brought back a cup of broth, which she drank slowly. She looked no more with anxiety at the bureau and he saw that the drawer was closed and the key gone from the lock. In a few minutes she made her way downstairs with the aid of his arm and sank upon her bed. Her eyes were heavy.

"How lovely it is here! If I can get a good nap, I'll feel much better. Then," said Mary Alcestis to her soul, "I shall finish what I began."

Before Dr. Lister had covered her she was asleep. He went out and closed the door and straightway climbed the third story steps. He had never wondered what was in the old bureau, he naturally avoided thinking of it at all. Now a suspicion had entered his mind, rousing his curiosity. There was, he was convinced, some object here which his wife did not wish him to see, something which helped to keep grief alive, some mystery which had better be at once probed. He did not believe that even yet she had told him everything about her brother.

In the upper drawer lay the neat packages of Basil's clothing, he felt of each one—here was no mystery. The second drawer was locked, but access to it was easy since he had only to lift out the upper drawer. But there was a wooden partition between them. Had Mary Alcestis carried the key away with her? He explored among the paper bundles. Slipped into one, he found the key.

When he had opened the locked drawer, he stood for a long time motionless before it. He saw the tablets, the sheaves of paper, the small parcel of old letters, the little penwiper, the pens and pencils. First he took up one of the pens, holding it in his hand and staring at it. After a while he took up a tablet and turned back the cover. He read the first page, bringing it close to his somewhat nearsighted eyes. At the bottom, he whispered what he read aloud as he turned the page:

He read on. The moments passed. The dreaded enemies anticipated by Mary Alcestis drifted in at the window and out again, and at last the campus clock struck five. Supper in the Lister house was early. He began to turn the pages rapidly and five or six at a time. They were covered with close writing; here and there were bars of music with Greek words between them.

He took up another of the thick books. Here, closely copied, was "Bitter Bread"; here were other titles—"The Dust of Battle" with an explanatory sentence beneath it: "The fire of hell shall not touch the legs of him who is covered with the dust of battle in the road of God." Here was "Obsession," here "Victory," here "Shame." He opened the third book, saw poetry and blinked eyes which had begun to ache. He saw loose sheets of paper, and the string which had held them. When he put the string round them, he saw that some had been taken out of the package. He opened the other drawers—they contained only more camphor-scented, carefully wrapped packages of clothing. He went prowling about, he lifted the pillows from the bed, he looked into the pitcher on the little washstand. From it he dipped the fragments of paper and laid them on the bureau. "Passion makes its own laws"—he read, seeing exactly what Mary Alcestis had thought and what she had begun to do. Oh, miserable Mary Alcestis!

His coat had capacious pockets. These he filled and went to his study. He emptied the contents into the drawer which contained his own meager original work. Then he went back to the third story, fastened the window and the drawer, and, locking the door, carried the key and the remaining manuscripts away with him.

At nine o'clock that evening he stepped quietly from the side door of his study across to Dr. Scott's room in Recitation Hall where he saw a light. Mrs. Lister had wakened, had taken more broth, and again slept peacefully. Her intention to destroy Basil's manuscript brought peace to her mind. She would have lost that peace suddenly and completely could she have seen her husband as he appeared before Dr. Scott, his spectacles awry, his face flushed, his eyes burning.

Dr. Lister had complete confidence in Dr. Scott's judgment and in his sense of honor. It was necessary to lay a certain matter before one whose judgment was sound and who could be entirely trusted, and he was grateful because he had such a friend.

"Will you come to my study for a few minutes?" he asked.

Dr. Scott rose at once. There was a stealthy appearance in their advance. Dr. Scott looked back over his shoulder toward his house. If his wife saw him from the porch she would be just as likely as not to call to him; not because she wanted him or needed him, but because she was curious. When they reached the Lister house safely, Dr. Lister explained in a low tone that Mrs. Lister was not well and was asleep. He opened the door quietly and tiptoed into his study and then closed the door into the hall.

"Scott—" he began and paused. Now that he was about to impart his discovery, it seemed melodramatic, impossible.

"Yes?" said Dr. Scott. He had sat down on the side of the desk opposite Dr. Lister's chair. His eye fell upon the old books with their close writing and he wondered whether Lister had called him to consult him about compositions of his own. He had hoped for something more interesting, but after all, what could excite a man more than conviction of his own powers? Dr. Scott wondered how he would get out of an uncomfortable situation. Then, at Dr. Lister's words, he felt the blood beating through his wrists and in the vein in his neck.

"I have found a quantity of manuscript belonging to Basil Everman. I did not know until this afternoon that it existed. It has been stored away for many years as having no value beyond that of a souvenir of Basil for whom Mrs. Lister—" his voice changed a little. He had not quite forgiven Mary Alcestis—"for whom Mrs. Lister had a very deep affection. I wish to have your opinion of them before I speak to her about their value, of which she has, I am sure, no conception."

Dr. Scott reached across the table. His motion was swift, eager, unlike him. He might have been said to pounce, hawk-like, upon the old books and papers and his hand shook as he touched first of all one of the unbound sheaves. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the lamp, his figure relaxed, became motionless, except for the turning of pages.

Dr. Lister sat at first quietly, one knee thrown over the other, his foot swinging. After a while his guest looked up at him, in his face intense annoyance amounting almost to disgust. He tried to cover this revelation of his inner feeling, but was too late.

"Don't mind saying just what you think," said Dr. Lister. "Nothing in the world would be so unfortunate as for us to set too high a value upon Basil's writings."

But it was not Basil's writings which annoyed.

"I wish you would stop swinging your foot!"

Dr. Lister looked astonished, then he laughed. He went upstairs to glance in upon a sleeping Mary Alcestis. All compunctions had now departed from his breast. When he came back to the study, Dr. Scott asked a question.

"How old was he?"

"About twenty-five."

"Incredible!"

He bent again over Basil Everman's writing. Dr. Lister opened a notebook and read for a few minutes and laid it down, surfeited with Basil Everman. He crossed the hall and walked up and down the long parlor. When he went back within reach of Dr. Scott's whisper, he heard, "It seems to me you've come perilously near committing a sort of murder. What was his family about?"

"They thought him a little wild. That is between you and me, Scott."

"Wild!" repeated Dr. Scott, and still again, "Wild!"

Again Dr. Lister started upon a promenade through the parlor where Basil had walked, past the old piano, under the old portraits.

When he came back to the study, Dr. Scott had ceased reading.

"I forgot my glasses," said he. "I've read myself almost blind. And anyway, I can't read any more. Two hours of this is like two hours of Euripides; it takes life out of you. Was he really here, in this house, in Waltonville?" Dr. Scott drew the word out to a dreary length.

"Do you think anything can be made of them?"

"My dear Lister! You know and I know that they can be published as they stand. There are lines which might be annotated, but that is all. They are unique, priceless. They help to redeem the nation from charges such as Utterly's. He was right about them in the wildest of his extravagance."

Dr. Lister thrust his hands into his pockets.

"It would help Mrs. Lister to see that they should be published if—"

"She will surely publish them with pride and joy!"

"I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded. I mean, she would, I am sure, be glad if you would arrange to select, to edit—that is if—when they are published."

Dr. Scott put his hand again between his eyes and the light. If he could have chosen a task from all the tasks in the world, barring the greater work of the creative writer, it would have been such a task as this. He rose and slipped his hand into the front of his coat. In this position he had received Mrs. Scott's "Yes." This moment was to be classed with that; it was later to be placed above it in quality and in importance.

"I should count myself the most fortunate of men," said he. "I envy Mrs. Lister her relationship to Basil Everman. I wish—" The hall clock had begun to strike and he paused to count the strokes. "It is time for me to go. When can this work begin? There are only six more weeks of vacation."

His eagerness made Dr. Lister uneasy.

"When I have talked it over with Mrs. Lister I will let you know at once," said he.

Then, having closed the door behind his friend, he stood thinking deeply.