“I couldn’t say, Miss; I’m not sure—­” she answered flutteringly; “But I’ll have every ’ole and corner searched to-morrow—–­”

“No, to-night!” said Maryllia, with determination; “I will not sleep in the house if one peacock’s feather remains in it!  There!” Her brows were bent tragically;—­in another moment she laughed; “Take them away!” she continued, picking up Mrs. Spruce’s apron at the corners and huddling all the glittering plumage into its capacious folds; “Take them all away!  And go right through the house, and collect every remaining feather you can find—­and then—­and then—–­”

Here she paused dubiously.  “You mustn’t burn them, you know!  That would be unluckier still!”

“Lor!  Would it now, Miss?  I never should ’ave thought it!” murmured Mrs. Spruce plaintively, grasping her apronful of ’horrible witch-eyes’; “What on earth shall I do with them?”

Maryllia considered.  Very pretty she looked at that moment, with one small finger placed meditatively on her lips, which were curved close like a folded rosebud.  “You must either bury them, or drown them!” she said at last, with the gravest decision; “If you drown them, you must tie them to a stone, so that they will not float.  If you bury them, you must dig ten feet deep!  You must really!  If you don’t, they will all come up again, and the eyes will be all over the place, haunting you!” Here she broke into the merriest little laugh possible.  “Poor Spruce!  You do look so miserable!  See here—­ I’ll tell you what to do!  Pack them ail in a box, and I will send them to my aunt Emily!  She loves them!  She likes to see them stuck all over the drawing-room.  They’re never unlucky to her.  She has a fellow-feeling for peacocks; there is a sort of affinity between herself and them!  Pack up every feather you can find, Spruce!  The box must go to-night by parcel’s post Address to Mrs. Fred Vancourt, at the Langham Hotel.  She’s staying there just now.  Will you be sure to send them off to-night?”

She held up her little white hand entreatingly, and her blue eyes wonderfully sweet and childlike, yet grave and passionate, looked straight into the elder woman’s wrinkled apple face.

“When she looked at me like that, I’d a gone barefoot to kingdom-come for her!” Mrs. Spruce afterwards declared to some of her village intimates—­“And as for the peacocks’ feathers, I’d a scrubbed though the ’ole ’ouse from top to bottom afore I’d a let one be in it!”

To Maryllia she said: 

“You may take my word for it, Miss!  They’ll all go out of the ’ouse ’fore seven o’clock.  I’ll send them myself to the post.”

“Thank you, so much!” said Maryllia, with a comical little sigh of relief.  “And now, Spruce, I will go to my bedroom and lie down for an hour.  I’m just a little tired.  Have you managed to get a maid for me?”

“Well, Miss, there’s jest a gel-she don’t know anythink much, but she’s ‘andy and willin’ and ’umble, and quick with her needle, and tidy at foldin’, and got a good character.  She’s the best I could do, Miss.  Her name is Nancy Pyrle—­I’ll send her to you directly.”