good work," said she. "I'll wait to see if I am to
do any of it over."

"No, thank you," said he. And he looked up--to find himself gazing at
still another person, wholly different from any he had seen before. The
others had all been women--womanly women, full of the weakness, the
delicateness rather, that distinguishes the feminine. This woman he was
looking at now had a look of strength. He had thought her frail. He was
seeing a strong woman--a splendidly healthy body, with sinews of steel
most gracefully covered by that fair smooth skin of hers. And her
features, too--why, this girl was a person of character, of will.

He glanced through the pages. "All right--thank you," he said hastily.
"Please don't stay any longer. Leave the other thing till to-morrow."

"No--it has to be done to-night."

"But I insist upon your going."

She hesitated, said quietly, "Very well," and turned to go.

"And you mustn't do it at home, either."

She made no reply, but waited respectfully until it was evident he
wished to say no more, then went out. He bundled together his papers,
sealed and stamped and addressed his letter, put on his overcoat and hat
and crossed the outer office on his way to the door. It was empty; she
was gone. He descended in the elevator to the street, remembered that he
had not locked one of his private cases, returned. As he opened the
outer door he heard the sound of typewriter keys. In the corner, the
obscure, sheltered corner, sat the girl, bent with childlike gravity
over her typewriter. It was an amusing and a touching sight--she looked
so young and so solemnly in earnest.

"Didn't I tell you to go home?" he called out, with mock sternness.

Up she sprang, her hand upon her heart. And once more she was beautiful,
but once more it was in a way startlingly, unbelievably different from
any expression he had seen before.

"Now, really. Miss--" He had forgotten her name. "You must not stay on
here. We aren't such slave drivers as all that. Go home, please. I'll
take the responsibility."

She had recovered her equanimity. In her quiet, gentle voice--but it no
longer sounded weak or insignificant--she said, "You are very kind, Mr.
Norman. But I must finish my work."

"Haven't I said I'd take the blame?"

"But you can't," replied she. "I work badly. I seem to learn slowly. If
I fall behind, I shall lose my place--sooner or later. It was that way
with the last place I had. If you interfered, you'd only