Rachel had, however, long to wait.  As she said, Captain Keith was one of those inborn loiterers who, made punctual by military duty, revenge themselves by double tardiness in the common affairs of life.  Impatience had nearly made her revoke her good opinion of him, and augur that, knowing himself vanquished, he had left the field to her, when at last a sound of wheels was heard, a dog-cart stopped at the door, and Captain Keith entered with an enormous blue and gold volume under his arm.

“I am sorry to be so late,” he said, “but I have only now succeeded in procuring my ally.”

“An ally?”

“Yes, in this book.  I had to make interest at the Avoncester Library, before I could take it away with me.”  As he spoke he placed the book desk-fashion on a chair, and turned it so that Ermine might see it; and she perceived that it was a bound-up volume of the “Illustrated London News.”  Two marks were in it, and he silently parted the leaves at the first.

It revealed the lace-making beauty in all her rural charms.

“I see,” said Rachel; “it is the same figure, but not the same shaped picture.”

Without another word, Alick Keith opened the pages at the lace-school; and here again the figures were identical, though the margin had been differently finished off.

“I perceive a great resemblance,” again said Rachel, “but none that is not fully explained by Mr. Mauleverer’s accurate resemblance and desire to satirize foolish sentiment.”

Alick Keith took up the woodcut.  “I should say,” he observed, holding it up to the light, “that it was unusual to mount a proof engraving so elaborately on a card.”

“Oh, I see what your distrust is driving at; you suspect the designs of being pasted on.”

“There is such a test as water,” suggested Alick.

“I should be ashamed to return the proof to its master, bearing traces of unjust suspicion.”

“If the suspicion you impute to me be unjust, the water will produce no effect at all.”

“And you engage to retract all your distrust and contempt, if you are convinced that this engraving is genuine?”

“I do,” he answered steadily.

With irritated magnanimity Rachel dipped her finger into the vase of flowers on the table, and let a heavy drop of water fall upon the cottage scene.  The centre remained unaltered, and she looked round in exultation, saying, “There, now I suppose I may wipe it off.”

Neither spoke, and she applied her pocket handkerchief.  What came peeling away under her pressure?  It was the soft paper, and as she was passing the edge of the figure of the girl, she found a large smear following her finger.  The peculiar brown of Indian ink was seen upon her handkerchief, and when she took it up a narrow hem of white had become apparent between the girl’s head and its surroundings.  Neither spectator spoke, they scarcely looked at her, when she took another drop from the vase, and using it more boldly found the pasted figure curling up and rending under her hand, lines of newspaper type becoming apparent, and the dark cloud spreading around.