She began to consider what she might do that would hurt Anthony Dexter and make him suffer as she had suffered for half a lifetime.  If he had forgotten, she would make him remember—­ah, yes, he must remember before he could be hurt.  But what could she do?  What had he given her aside from the misery that she hungered to give back to him?

The pearls!  Miss Evelina lighted her candle and hurried upstairs.

In her dower chest, beneath the piles of heavy, yellowed linen, was a small jewel case.  She knelt before the chest, gasping, and thrust her questioning fingers down through the linen to the solid oak.  With a little cry, she rose to her feet, the jewel case in her hand.

The purple velvet was crushed, the satin was yellowed, but the string of pearls was there—­yellowed, too, by the slow passage of the years.  One or two of them were black.  A slip of paper fluttered out as she opened the case, and she caught it as it fell.  The paper was yellow and brittle and the ink had faded, but the words were still there, written in Anthony Dexter’s clear, bold hand; “First from the depths of the sea, and then from the depths of my love.”

“Depths!” muttered Miss Evelina, from between her clenched teeth.

Once the necklace had been beautiful—­a single strand of large, perfectly matched pearls.  The gold of the clasp was dull, but the diamond gleamed like the eye of some evil thing.  She wound the necklace twice about her wrist, then shuddered, for it was cold and smooth and sinuous, like a snake.

She coiled the discoloured necklace carefully upon its yellowed satin bed, laid the folded slip of paper over it, and closed it with a snap.  To-morrow—­no, this very night, Anthony Dexter should have the pearls, that had come first from the depths of the sea, and then from the depths of his love.

No hand but hers should give them back, for she saw it written in the scheme of vengeance that she herself should, mutely, make him pay.  She felt a new strength of body and a fresh clearness of mind as, with grim patience, she set herself to wait.

The clocks in the house were all still.  Miss Evelina’s watch had long ago been sold.  There was no town clock in the village, but the train upon which she had come was due shortly after midnight.  She knew every step of the way by dark as well as by daylight, but the night was clear and there would be the light of the dying moon,

Her own clouded skies were clearing.  Dimly she began to perceive herself as a part of things, not set aside helplessly to suffer eternally, but in some sort of relation to the rest of the world.

On the Sunday before the catastrophe, Miss Evelina had been to church, and even yet, she remembered fragments of the sermon.  “God often uses people to carry out His plans,” the minister had said.  At the time, it had not particularly impressed her, and she had never gone to church again.  If she had listened further, she might have heard the minister say that the devil was wont to do the same thing.