* * * * *

I felt my way across Althea's room to light the lamp--there are no
electrics in my old country home. As I went in I stumbled over a rug
whose corner had been drawn into a bunch by the edge of a trunk which
had been pulled too far toward the middle of the room. I encountered
a chair hung full with clothing; I pushed what felt like a shoe out
of my path.

It took some time for me to find the match-box, which ordinarily
stands on a corner of the dressing-table. My groping hand encountered
all sorts of unfamiliar objects in its quest, and it was not without
a premonition of what I was about to see that I finally lit the lamp
and looked around me.

Well--of course she had unpacked hurriedly, as hurriedly dressed for
dinner, and she had been detained downstairs ever since. I should not
judge in haste. Doubtless in the morning she would put things to rights.
I removed a trunk-tray from the bed, hung up several frocks in the
closet, cleared away the rest of the belongings from the counterpane,
and arranged Althea's bed for the night. I did the rest of my work
quickly, and returned to lower the light.

It couldn't be--really, no--it couldn't be! There must be some other way
of accounting for those scratches on the hitherto spotless white wall,
now marred by five long, brown marks, where a match had been drawn again
and again before it struck into light!

It _couldn't_ have been Althea. Yet--those marks were never there