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thought—one of those books from the lending library my aunt had forbidden me to read, but into which I had, of course, dipped, since she left them lying all about the house.
    Ferdinand struck another pose, more graceful than the last.
    'I go,' he said deeply. 'There are limits to my strength. I can endure no more. My adored one—farewell!'
    He strode to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned. He gave me one long, burning look, a sob shook his frame, and he was gone.
    I sank into the nearest chair.
    We had no company that day. My aunt had decreed an early night, in anticipation of the ball next day. This was fortunate, for I doubt if I could have framed an intelligible sentence. I was dreaming of Fernando. (I had decided to call him Fernando; it sounded so much more romantic.) My aunt was too preoccupied to notice my state, except for a testy 'Drat the girl,' when I handed her her fan instead of the newspaper she had requested, and when I dreamily offered her a bowl of potpourri at tea. I was reliving that heavenly moment when his arms enfolded me; when his lips touched my cheek and moved slowly toward my mouth ... At that point a long, delicious shiver ran through me, and my aunt inquired suspiciously whether I was catching a chill.
    Alone at last in my bed, I did not find my thoughts so pleasant. I needed no one to tell me that Our Love—for so I called it, in capital letters—was hopeless. Indeed, it required no imaginative effort to picture my aunt's face as it would look if she ever discovered what had happened; pop-eyed and purple-cheeked, she would probably have a seizure. 'A penniless music master and—ten thousand a year!' That hateful phrase!
    Wealth meant nothing to me; with the inaccurate enthusiasm of youth, I saw myself cooking (I had never boiled a pot of water in my life) and ironing my husband's shirts—though I would not have recognized a flatiron if I had seen one. I had never seen poverty either, not with my eyes open and observing; but I was unaware of the ironies in my pretty picture of vine-covered cottages and dainty suppers. No, I told myself, I could endure poverty for him, but I could not condemn my darling to a life of poverty for my sake. I was under age. My guardian could pursue us and tear us apart, with the help of that Law to which Mr. Beam was such a loyal servant.
    I began to see some point in Mr. Jonathan's suggestion that I find out about my financial affairs. Not that it would do any good if I wished to find out, I thought despairingly; Mr. Beam would tolerate no such request. He was as cruel and worldly as my aunt; my love was doomed to die an untimely death.
    With melancholy pleasure I decided to cry myself to sleep, but dropped off before I had done more than dampen the pillow. I was disgusted next morning to find there was no trace upon it of my tragic love. But my tears of the previous afternoon had left me looking as wan and languid as I felt, and my aunt's disapproval was openly expressed.
    It was only noon, but she and Mary, my maid, were hard at work. The ball was an important affair; she had great hopes of it and was determined to spare no effort to make me look my best. I sat at my dressing table with the two of them hovering over me like vultures, patting and brushing and pushing me.
    'Your eyes look like a pig's,' said my aunt, with her usual tact. 'Mary, get that little bottle of belladonna. And the box—you know the one—I keep in the locked drawer of my cupboard.'
    I knew the box, too; it was an open secret in the house. Any observer of my aunt's suspiciously blooming cheeks would have known they did not come from nature.
    'I don't want paint on my face,' I said sullenly. 'Nor the drops. Mrs. Brown says belladonna is bad for the eyes.'
    'You must soak them first, to reduce the puffiness,' said my aunt, ignoring my complaint. 'What is wrong with you? If I didn't know better, I would swear you had been bawling.'
    Mary appeared with the required items, and my aunt