“Miggie’s hair shall not be harmed,” she said, covering with her apron the wealth of raven tresses.  “I can keep her from pulling it.  I can manage her;” and the sequel proved that she was right.

It was a singular power that blue-eyed blonde possessed over the dark-eyed brunette, who became at last as obedient to Nina’s will as Nina once had been to her’s, and it was amusing to watch Nina flitting about Edith, now reasoning with, now coaxing, and again threatening her capricious patient, who was sure eventually to do as she was bidden.

Only once while the delirium lasted did Edith refer to Arthur, and then she said reproachfully, “Oh, Nina, what made him do so?”

They were alone, and bending over her, Nina replied, “I am so sorry, Miggie, and I’ll try to have the ugly thing scratched out.”

This idea once fixed in Nina’s mind could not easily be dislodged, and several times she went to Richard, asking him to scratch it out!  Wishing to humor her as far as possible he always answered that he would if he knew what she meant.  Nina felt that she must not explain, and with vigilant cunning she studied how to achieve her end without betraying Arthur.  It came to her one night, and whispering to Edith, “I am going to get it fixed,” she glided from the room and sought the library where she was sure of finding Richard.  It was nearly eleven o’clock, but he had not yet retired, and with his head bent forward he sat in his accustomed place, the fire-light shining on his face, which had grown fearfully haggard and white within the last two weeks.  He heard Nina’s step, and knowing who it was, asked if Edith were worse.

“No,” returned Nina, “she’ll live, too, If you’ll only scratch it out.”

He was tired of asking what she meant, and he made no answer.  But Nina was too intent upon other matters to heed his silence.  Going to his secretary she arranged materials for writing, and then taking his hand, said, in the commanding tone she used toward Edith when at all refractory, “Come and write.  ’Tis the only chance of saving her life.”

“Write what?” he asked, as he rose from his chair and suffered her to lead him to the desk.

He had written occasionally since his blindness, but it was not a frequent thing, and his fingers closed awkwardly about the pen she placed in his hand.  Feeling curious to know the meaning of all this, he felt for the paper and then said to her,

“I am ready for you to dictate.”

But dictation was no part of Nina’s intentions.  The lines traced upon that sheet would contain a secret which Richard must not know; and with a merry laugh, as she thought how she would cheat him, she replied,

“No, sir.  Only Miggie and I can read what you write.  Nina will guide your hand and trace the words.”

Dipping the pen afresh into the ink, she bade him take it, and grasping his fingers, guided them while they wrote as follows;