Elsie made no answer, but glided out of the room and slid away to her own apartment.  She bolted the door and drew her curtains close.  Then she threw herself on the floor, and fell into a dull, slow ache of passion, without tears, without words, almost without thoughts.  So she remained, perhaps, for a half-hour, at the end of which time it seemed that her passion had become a sullen purpose.  She arose, and, looking cautiously round, went to the hearth, which was ornamented with curious old Dutch tiles, with pictures of Scripture subjects.  One of these represented the lifting of the brazen serpent.  She took a hair-pin from one of her braids, and, insinuating its points under the edge of the tile, raised it from its place.  A small leaden box lay under the tile, which she opened, and, taking from it a little white powder, which she folded in a scrap of paper, replaced the box and the tile over it.

Whether Dick had by any means got a knowledge of this proceeding, or whether he only suspected some unmentionable design on her part, there is no sufficient means of determining.  At any rate, when they met, an hour or two after these occurrences, he could not help noticing how easily she seemed to have got over her excitement.  She was very pleasant with him,—­too pleasant, Dick thought.  It was not Elsie’s way to come out of a fit of anger so easily as that.  She had contrived some way of letting off her spite; that was certain.  Dick was pretty cunning, as old Sophy had said, and, whether or not he had any means of knowing Elsie’s private intentions, watched her closely, and was on his guard against accidents.

For the first time, he took certain precautions with reference to his diet, such as were quite alien to his common habits.  On coming to the dinner-table, that day, he complained of headache, took but little food, and refused the cup of coffee which Elsie offered him, saying that it did not agree with him when he had these attacks.

Here was a new complication.  Obviously enough, he could not live in this way, suspecting everything but plain bread and water, and hardly feeling safe in meddling with them.  Not only had this school-keeping wretch come between him and the scheme by which he was to secure his future fortune, but his image had so infected his cousin’s mind that she was ready to try on him some of those tricks which, as he had heard hinted in the village, she had once before put in practice upon a person who had become odious to her.

Something must be done, and at once, to meet the double necessities of this case.  Every day, while the young girl was in these relations with the young man, was only making matters worse.  They could exchange words and looks, they could arrange private interviews, they would be stooping together over the same book, her hair touching his cheek, her breath mingling with his, all the magnetic attractions drawing them together with strange, invisible effluences.  As her passion