It was the letter that put me in his power.

The next day was Xmas.  I got a lot of things, including the necklace, and a mending basket from Sis, with the hope that it would make me tidey, and father had bought me a set of Silver Fox, which mother did not approve of, it being too expencive for a young girl to wear, according to her.  I must say that for an hour or two I was happy enough.

But the afternoon was terrable.  We keep open house on Xmas afternoon, and father makes a champagne punch, and somebody pours tea, although nobody drinks it, and there are little cakes from the Club, and the house is decorated with poin—­(Memo:  Not in the Dictionery and I cannot spell it, although not usualy troubled as to spelling.)

At eleven o’clock the mail came in, and mother sorted it over, while father took a gold piece out to the post-man.

There were about a million cards, and mother glanced at the addresses and passed them round.  But suddenly she frowned.  There was a small parcel, addressed to me.

“This looks like a Gift, Barbara,” she said.  And proceded to open it.

My heart skipped two beats, and then hamered.  Mother’s mouth was set as she tore off the paper and opened the box.  There was a card, which she glanced at, and underneath, was a book of poems.

“Love Lyrics,” said mother, in a terrable voice.  “To Barbara, from H——­”

“Mother——­” I began, in an ernest tone.

“A child of mine recieving such a book from a man!” she went on.  “Barbara, I am speachless.”

But she was not speachless.  If she was speachless for the next half hour, I would hate to hear her really converse.  And all that I could do was to bear it.  For I had made a Frankenstein—­see the book read last term by the Literary Society—­not out of grave-yard fragments, but from malted milk tablets, so to speak, and now it was pursuing me to an early grave.  For I felt that I simply could not continue to live.

“Now—­where does he live?”

“I—­don’t know, mother.”

“You sent him a Letter.”

“I don’t know where he lives, anyhow.”

“Leila,” mother said, “will you ask Hannah to bring my smelling salts?”

“Aren’t you going to give me the book?” I asked.  “It—­it sounds interesting.”

“You are shameless,” mother said, and threw the thing into the fire.  A good many of my things seemed to be going into the fire at that time.  I cannot help wondering what they would have done if it had all happened in the summer, and no fires burning.  They would have felt quite helpless, I imagine.

Father came back just then, but he did not see the Book, which was then blazing with a very hot red flame.  I expected mother to tell him, and I daresay I should not have been surprised to see my furs follow the book.  I had got into the way of expecting to see things burning that do not belong in a fireplace.  But mother did not tell him.