none of it to old Hannah. All that day
there was a shy joyousness about her,
with sudden soft blushes, and once or
twice a little half-frightened laugh; there
was a puzzled look, too, in her face,
as if she was not quite sure just what
she was going to do, or rather, how she
was going to do it. And, of course,
that was the difficulty. How could she
"add the philter to the drink of one
who loved her not"?

Yet it came about simply enough.
John Fenn had lately felt it borne in
upon him that it was time to make another
effort to deal with Henry Roberts;
perhaps, he reasoned, to show concern
about the father's soul might touch the
daughter's hardened heart. It was when
he reached this conclusion that he
committed the extravagance of buying a
new coat. So it happened that that
very afternoon, while the house was
still pungent with the scent of steeping
herbs, he came to Henry Roberts's
door, and knocked solemnly, as befitted
his errand; (but as he heard her
step in the hall he passed an anxious
hand over a lapel of the new
coat). Her father, she said, was not