than ever--and it looks so good!"

"Why not drink it, then?" asked Mr. Saunders.

"Oh, no," said Aunt Isabel.

"Do," he insisted. "We can go back and get another."

"Well, I'll take a taste," she said.

On the words, she lifted the flasket to her lips and took a long
draught. Then Mr. Saunders, laughing, caught it from her, and he
took a long draught.

Missy felt a wave of icy horror sweep down her spine. She wanted to
cry out in protest. For, even while she stared at them, at Aunt
Isabel in pink organdie and Mr. Saunders in blue serge dividing the
flasket of soda between them, a vision presented itself clearly
before her eyes:

La Beale Isoud slenderly tall in a straight girdled gown of grey-
green velvet, head thrown back so that her filleted golden hair
brushed her shoulders, violet eyes half-closed, and an "antique"-
looking flasket clasped in her two slim hands; and Sir Tristram so
imperiously dark and handsome in his crimson, fur-trimmed doublet,
his two hands stretched out and gripping her two shoulders, his
black eyes burning as if to look through her closed lids--the
magical love-potion. . . love that never would depart for weal
neither for woe. . .