her title to her parentage. 

 At first she made a feint of distributing her smiles willfully, by turn, between Modred and me, so that neither of us might claim precedence. But Jason was admitted to no pretense of rivalry; though, to do him justice, he at once took the upper hand by meeting scorn with indifference. In my heart, however, I claimed her as my especial property; a demand justified, I felt no doubt, by her manner toward me, which was marked by a peculiar rebellious tenderness she showed to no other. 

 The day after her arrival she asked me to take her over the mill and show her everything. I complied when the place was empty of all save us. We explored room by room, with a single exception, the ancient building. 

 Of course Zyp said: “There’s a room you haven’t shown me, Renny.” 

 “Yes,” said I; “the room of silence.” 

 “Why didn’t we go there?” 

 “Never mind. There’s something wicked in it.” 

 “What? Do tell me! Oh, I should love to see!” 

 “There’s nothing to see. Let it alone, can’t you?” 

 “You’re a coward. I’ll get the sleepy boy to show me.” 

 “Come along then,” I said, and, seizing her hand, dragged her roughly indoors. 

 We crossed a dark passage, and, pushing back a heavy door of ancient timber, stood on the threshold of the room of silence. It was not in nature’s meaning that the name was bestowed, for, entering, the full voice of the wheel broke upon one with a grinding fury that shook the moldering boards of the floor. 

 “Well,” I whispered, “have you seen enough?” 

 “I see nothing,” she cried, with a shrill, defiant laugh; “I am going in”—and before I could stop her, she had run into the middle of the room and was standing still in the bar of sunlight, with her arms outspread like wings, and her face, the lips apart, lifted with an expression on it of eager inquiry. 

 What happened? I can find an image only in the poison bottle of the entomologist. As some shining, flower-stained butterfly, slipped into this glass coffin, 

 Prev. P 22/311 next