the bleeding with her handkerchief, did not even take the trouble
to reply. Later, of course, the inevitable moment of penitence
came; but it was not because she had lost her temper; loss of
temper was always a trifling matter to Elizabeth; it was because
she had been disrespectful to her uncle's picture. That night,
when all the household was in bed, she slipped down-stairs,
candle in hand, to the library. On the mantelpiece was a
photograph of herself; she took it out of the frame, tore it into
little bits, stamped on it, grinding her heel down on her own
young face; then she took off the locket Mr. Ferguson had given
her,--a most simple affair of pearls and turquoise; kissed it
with passion, and looked about her: where should it be offered
up? The ashes in the fireplace? No; the house-maid
would find it there. Then she had an inspiration--the deep
well of her uncle's battered old inkstand! Oh, to blacken
the pearls, to stain the heavenly blue of the turquoise! It was
almost too frightful. But it was right. She had hurt his feelings
by saying she wished she didn't have to live with him, and she
had insulted his dear, dear, _dear_ picture! So, with a
tearful hiccup, she dropped the locket into the ink-pot that
stood between the feet of a spattered bronze Socrates, and
watched it sink into a black and terrible grave. "I'm glad not to
have it," she said, and felt that she had squared matters with
her conscience.

As for Robert Ferguson, he did not notice that the photograph had
disappeared, nor did he plunge his pen deep enough to find a
pearl, nor understand the significance of the bound-up hand, but
the old worry about her came back again. Her mother had defended
her own wicked love-affair, with all the violence of a selfish