Miss Clopsey, left alone in the office, sank back in her chair.
"Chronic by jerks," she sighed; "there can be few things worse than that; and at her age, too!"
"What can be the matter?" asked the doctor, as the two stood in the parlor.
"It is an idea," said Miss Panney; "you cannot think with what violence it seized me. Doctor, what became of that book you wrote on the 'Diagnosis of Sympathy'?"
The doctor opened his eyes in astonishment.
"Nothing has become of it. It has been in my desk for two years. I have not had time even to copy it."
"And of course your writing could not be trusted to a printer. Now what you should do is this: employ that Drane girl to copy your manuscript. She can do it here, and if she comes to a word she cannot make out, she can ask you. That will keep her going until autumn, and by that time we can get her some scholars."
"Miss Panney," said the doctor, "are you going crazy? I cannot afford charity on that scale."
"Charity!" repeated the old lady, sarcastically. "A pretty word to use. By that sort of charity you give yourself one of the greatest of earthly blessings, in the shape of La Fleur, and you get out a book which will certainly be a benefit to the world, and will, I believe, bring you fame and profit. And you are frightened by the paltry sum that will be necessary to pay the board of the girl and her mother for perhaps two months. Now do not condemn this plan until you have had time to consider it. Go back to your Clopsey; I am going to find Mrs. Tolbridge and talk to her."