“I wonder,” said Mrs. Gresley, looking at Hester’s pile of letters over the top of her share of the morning’s correspondence—­namely, a list of Pryce Jones—­“that you care to write so many letters, Hester.  I am sure I never did such a thing when I was a girl.  I should have regarded it as a waste of time.”

“Ha!” said Mr. Gresley, in a gratified tone, opening a little roll.  “What have we here?  Proofs!  My paper upon ‘Modern Dissent.’  I told Edwards I would not allow him to put it in his next number of the Southminster Advertiser until I had glanced at it in print.  I don’t know when I shall find time to correct it.  I shall be out all the afternoon at the chapter meeting.”

He looked at Hester.  She had laid down her letters and was taking a cup of coffee from Mrs. Gresley.  She evidently had not heard her brother’s remark.

“You and I must lay our heads together over this, Hester,” he said, holding up with some pride a long slip of proof.  “It will be just in your line.  You might run it over after breakfast,” he continued, in high good-humor, “and put in the stops and grammar and spelling—­you’re more up in that sort of thing than I am—­and then we will go through it together.”

Hester was quite accustomed, when her help was asked as to a composition, to receive as a reason for the request the extremely gratifying assurance that she was “good” at punctuation and spelling.  It gave the would-be author a comfortable feeling that, after all, he was only asking advice on the crudest technical matters on which Hester’s superiority could be admitted without a loss of masculine self-respect.

“I would rather not tamper with punctuation and spelling,” said Hester, dryly.  “I am so shaky on both myself.  You had better ask the school-master.  He knows all that sort of ABC better than I do.”

Mr. Gresley frowned, and looked suspiciously at her.  He wanted Hester’s opinion, of which she was perfectly aware.  But she intended that he should ask for it.

Mrs. Gresley, behind the coffee-pot, felt that she was overlooked.  She had helped Mr. Gresley with his numerous literary efforts until Hester came.

“I saw you correcting some one’s manuscript last week,” he said.  “You were at it all day in the hay-field.”

“That was different.  I was asked to criticise the style and composition.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Gresley, “don’t let us split hairs.  I don’t want an argument about it.  If you’ll come into my study at ten o’clock I’ll get it off my hands at once.”

“With pleasure,” said Hester, looking at him with rueful admiration.  She had tried a hundred times to get the better of him in conversation, but she had not yet succeeded.

“I have a message for you,” continued Mr. Gresley, in restored good-humor.  “Mrs. Loftus writes that she is returning to Wilderleigh at the end of the week, and that the sale of work may take place in the Wilderleigh gardens at the end of August.  And—­let me see, I will read what she says: