It was her intention on this very day, after luncheon should be over and she should be free for a few hours, to make the much-dreaded, wholly-longed-for visit to the great manufacturing house where she was to show her wares.

The drawings lay in a pile upon Charlotte’s table, ready to be wrapped.  Baby Ellen, spying the pile of drawings, with an edge or two of brilliant colour showing, trotted gaily over to the table.  She stood on tiptoe and pulled at the corner nearest her.  The drawings fell from the table in a disordered heap on the floor.

The sight of them pleased Ellen immensely.  She held one up and shook it in her small fists, slowly and carefully tore a corner off it, and cast the sheet down in favour of the next in order.  This she tore cleanly in two in the middle.  The paper was tough, to be sure, but the little fists were strong.

Then she remembered that seductive bath-tub.  A patter of little feet, a laugh of pleasure—­“Da!” cried Ellen, gleefully—–­and the first sheet was in.

Seven trips, pursued with vigour and growing hilarity, and Charlotte’s work had received its initial plunge into a new state of being.  Four of the drawings had been torn in two.  The bath-tub was a mass of softly blending colours.

Charlotte came running back up the stairs, her mind, which had been held captive by a young caller, reverting with some anxiety to the small person whom she had left, as she thought, shut up in the safe bath-room.  She expected to hear Ellen crying, as was likely to be the case when left alone without sufficient means of amusement; but the silence, as she flew up-stairs, alarmed her.  Silence was almost sure to mean mischief.

The bath-room door was ajar.  Charlotte pushed it open and looked in.  One glance showed her he havoc which had been wrought.  She stopped short, staring with wild eyes into the bath-tub; then she caught her treasures out of it, held them dripping before her for an instant, and let them drop on the floor.  She turned and ran out of the room to look for Ellen.

The baby sat calmly on a rug, in the middle of Charlotte’s room, engaged in pulling the leaves, one by one, out of a small sketch-book which had been on the table with the drawings.  She looked up, a most engaging and innocent expression on her round face, and smiled at Charlotte.  But she met no smile in return.

“You little wretch!” breathed Charlotte, between her teeth, as she seized the sketch-book and whirled the baby to her feet. “Oh! Is this the way you pay me for all I’ve done for you?  You wicked—­cruel—­heartless——­”

It was the explosion of a blind wrath which made the girl shake the tiny form until Baby Ellen roared lustily.  Charlotte set her upon the floor again, and stood looking down at her with blazing eyes.  The small head was clasped in two little fists, as the child tore at her yellow curls, her infant soul stirred to indignation and fright at this most unexpected treatment.  Suddenly Charlotte seized her again and bore her swiftly away to Captain Rayburn’s room.