“Take care of her for an hour?  Surely.  But what’s the matter?”

It was small wonder he asked, for Charlotte’s face was white, her eyes brilliant, and her lips quivering as she spoke: 

“It’s nothing—­only baby has spoiled something of mine, and I’m so angry I don’t dare trust myself with her.”

She dropped little Ellen in his arms and fled, leaving her uncle to think what he might.  He looked grave as he soothed the baby, whose small breast still heaved convulsively.

“Are you conscientiously trying to do your full share in developing our little second fiddle’s capacity to play first?” he asked the baby, with his face against hers.  “Never mind, little one, never mind.  Baby doesn’t know—­but John Rayburn does—­that this being a means of education to other people is a thankless task sometimes.  Don’t cry.  Aunty Charlotte will kiss her hard and fast by and by, to make up for losing her temper with the little maid.  I suspect you were very, very trying, to make Aunty Charlotte look like that.”

Charlotte came down-stairs after a time and attended to the luncheon, her lips pressed tight together, her eyes heavy—­although not with tears.  She would not let herself cry.

Celia had a headache and did not notice, being herself disinclined to talk, and Captain Rayburn forbore to look at Charlotte.  But Jeff, when he came in, observed at once that something was amiss.  As soon as the meal was over he drew Charlotte into a corner.

“You haven’t been to Murdock with the pictures and been—­turned down?” he asked.

“No.”

“Going this afternoon, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Why not?  Thought that was the plan.”

Charlotte turned away, fighting hard for self-control.  Jeff caught her arm.

“See here, Fiddle, you’ve got to tell me.  You look like a ghost.  No bad news—­from New Mexico?”

“Oh, no—­no!  Please go away.”

“I won’t till you tell me what’s up.  You’re not sick?”

Charlotte ran off up-stairs, Jeff following.  “Charlotte,” he cried, as he pursued her into her room before she could turn and close the door, “what’s the use of acting like this?  Something’s happened, and I’m going to know what it is.”

Charlotte sat down in a despairing heap on the floor and hid her face in her hands.  Jeff glanced helplessly from her to the table in the corner.  Then he observed that it was bare of the pile of drawings.

“Nothing’s happened to the wall-paper?” he asked, eagerly.

Charlotte nodded.

“What?”

“Go look up in the attic, if you must know.”

Jeff dashed up-stairs, and surveyed the havoc.  He came back breathless with dismay.

“How did it happen?”

“Baby—­bath-tub.”

“The little—­imp!  Are they spoiled?”

“You saw.”

“Yes; colours run together a bit on some, others torn in two.  Yet they show what they were, Fiddle—­I vow they do.  I’d take them just as they are, explain the whole thing, and see what comes of it.”