heard Miss Sellars, who
appeared to be in a bad temper, leave the house. Then running to the top
of the kitchen stairs, I called for Mrs. Peedles. I told her I was going
to leave her, and, judging the truth to be the simplest explanation, I
told her the reason why.

"My dear," said Mrs. Peedles, "I am only too glad to hear it. It wasn't
for me to interfere, but I couldn't help seeing you were making a fool
of yourself. I only hope you'll get clear off, and you may depend upon
me to do all I can to help you."

"You don't think I'm acting dishonourably, do you, Mrs. Peedles?" I
asked.

"My dear," replied Mrs. Peedles, "it's a difficult world to live
in--leastways, that's been my experience of it."

I had just completed my packing--it had not taken me long--when I
heard upon the stairs the heavy panting that always announced to me the
up-coming of Mrs. Peedles. She entered with a bundle of old manuscripts
under her arm, torn and tumbled booklets of various shapes and sizes.
These she plumped down upon the rickety table, and herself upon the
nearest chair.

"Put them in your box, my dear," said Mrs. Peedles. "They'll come in
useful to you later on."

I glanced at the bundle. I saw it was a collection of old plays in
manuscript-prompt copies, scored, cut and interlined. The top one I
noticed was "The Bloodspot: Or the Maiden, the Miser and the Murderer;"
the second, "The Female Highwayman."

"Everybody's forgotten 'em," explained Mrs. Peedles, "but there's some
good stuff in all of them."

"But what am I to do with them?" I enquired.

"Just whatever you like, my dear," explained Mrs. Peedles. "It's quite
safe. They're all of 'em dead, the authors of 'em. I've picked 'em out
most carefully. You just take a scene from one and a scene from the
other. With judgment and your talent you'll make a dozen good plays out
of that little lot when your time comes."

"But they wouldn't be my plays, Mrs. Peedles," I suggested.

"They will if I give them to you," answered Mrs. Peedles. "You put 'em
in your box. And never mind the bit of rent," added Mrs. Peedles; "you
can pay me that later on."

I kissed the kind old soul good-bye and took her gift with me to my new
lodgings in Camden Town. Many a time have I been hard put to it for
plot or scene, and more than once in weak mood have I turned with guilty
intent the torn and crumpled pages of Mrs. Peedles's donation to my
literary equipment. It is pleasant to be able to put