Mona could have cried aloud at this wanton destruction of what she would have regarded as priceless, but she dared make no sign, although she was trembling in every nerve.

“Is the lady living?” she ventured to inquire, as she turned away, apparently to fold a dress, but really to conceal the painful quivering of her lips.

“No.  You can finish packing this trunk, then you may take these dresses to the sewing-room.  You may begin ripping this brown one.  And you may take the pieces of that picture down and tell Mary to burn them.  I came up for a wrap; I am going for a drive.”

Mrs. Montague secured her wrap, then swept from the room, walking fiercely over the torn portrait, looking as if she would have been glad to trample thus upon the living girl whom she had so hated.

Mona reverently gathered up the fragments, her lips quivering with pain and indignation.

She laid them carefully together, but a bitter sob burst from her at the sight of the great ragged tears across the beautiful face.

“Oh, mother, mother!” she murmured, “what an insult to you, and I was powerless to help it.”

She finished her packing, then taking the dresses that were to be made over, and the torn picture, she went below.

She could not bear the thought of having that lovely face, marred though it was, consigned to the flames, yet she dare not disobey Mrs. Montague’s command to give it to Mary to be burned.

She waited until the girl came up stairs, then she called her attention to the pieces, and told her what was to be done with them.

She at once exclaimed at the resemblance to Mona.

“Where could Mrs. Montague have got it?” she cried; “it’s enough like you, miss, to be your own mother, and a beautiful lady she must have been, too.  It’s a pity to burn the picture, Miss Ruth; wouldn’t you like to keep it?”

“Perhaps Mrs. Montague would prefer that no one should have it; she said it was to be destroyed, you know,” Mona replied, but with a wistful look at the mutilated crayon.

“You shall have it if you want it, and I’ll fix it all right with her,” said the girl, in a confidential tone, as she put the pieces back into Mona’s hands.  She had become very fond of the gentle seamstress, and would have considered no favor too great to be conferred upon her.

That same afternoon, when Mona went out for her walk, she took the mutilated picture with her.

She made her way directly to the rooms of a first-class photographer, and asked if the portrait could be copied.

Yes, she was assured; there would be no difficulty about getting as good a picture as the original, only it would have to be all hand work.

Mona said she would give the order if it could be done immediately, and, upon being told she could have the copy in three days, she said she would call for it at the end of that time.