whatever in looking through her bureau drawers; indeed, she considered it a duty which she owed herself and the character of her house.  She had taken away the keys on purpose, and had told miss Farrel, without the slightest compunction, that they were lost.  The trunks were locked, and she had never been able to possess herself of the keys, but she felt sure that they contained, if not entire skeletons, at least scattered bones.

She discovered once, quite in open evidence on Miss Farrel’s wash-stand, a little porcelain box of pink-tinted salve, and she did not hesitate about telling Hannah, her chambermaid, the daughter of a farmer in the vicinity, and a girl who was quite in her confidence.  She called Hannah into the room and displayed the box.  “This is what she uses,” she said, solemnly.

Hannah, who was young, but had a thick, colorless skin, nodded with an inscrutable expression.

“I have always thought she used something on her face,” said Miss Hart.  “You can’t cheat me.”

Hannah took up a little, ivory-backed nail-polisher which was also on the wash-stand.  “What do you suppose this is?” she asked, timidly, in an awed whisper.

“How do I know?  I never use such things myself, and I never knew women who did before,” said Miss Hart, severely.  “I dare say, after she puts the paint on, she has to use something to smooth it down where the natural color of the skin begins.  How do I know?”

Hannah laid the nail-polisher beside the box of salve.  She was very much in love with the son of the farmer who lived next to her father’s.  The next Thursday afternoon was her afternoon off.  She watched her chance, and stole into Miss Farrel’s room, applied with trembling fingers a little of the nail-salve to her cheeks, then carefully rubbed it all off with the polisher.  She then went to her own room, put on a hat and thick veil, and succeeded in getting out of the hotel without meeting Miss Hart.  She was firmly convinced that she was painted, and that her cheeks had the lovely peach-bloom of Miss Farrel’s.

It seems sometimes as if one’s own conviction concerning one’s self goes a long way towards establishing that of other people.  Hannah, that evening, when she met the young man whom she loved, felt that she was a beauty like Miss Eliza Farrel, and before she went home he had told her how pretty she was and asked her to marry him, and Hannah had consented, reserving the right to work enough longer to earn a little more money.  She wished to be married in a white lace gown like one in Miss Farrel’s closet.  Miss Hart had called Hannah in to look at it one morning when Miss Farrel was at school.

“What do you suppose a school-teacher can want of a dress like this here in East Westland?” Miss Hart had asked, severely.  “She can’t wear it to meeting, or a Sunday-school picnic, or a church sociable, or even to a wedding in this place.  Look at it.  It’s cut low-neck.”