"It matters more than you think, Bonnibel," said Mrs. Arnold, sharply, the lines of vexation deepening in her face. "It behooves you to be as beautiful as you can now, for your face is your fortune." "I do not understand you, aunt," said the young girl, gravely. "It is time you should, then," was the vexed rejoinder, "I suppose you think now, Bonnibel, that your poor uncle has left you a fortune?" Bonnibel looked at her in surprise, and the widow's eyes shifted uneasily beneath her gaze. "Of course I believe that Uncle Francis has provided for my future," said the girl, quietly. "You are mistaken, then," snapped the widow; "Mr. Arnold died without a will and failed to provide for either you or Felise. Of course, in that case, I inherit everything; and, as I remarked just now, your face is your fortune." "My uncle died without a will!" repeated Bonnibel in surprise. "Yes," Mrs. Arnold answered, coolly. "Oh, but, aunt, you must be mistaken," said Bonnibel, quickly, while a slight flush of excitement tinted her pale cheeks. "Uncle Francis did leave a will. I am sure of it." "Then where is it?" inquired Mrs. Arnold. "In his desk in the library," said the girl confidently. "He told me but a few hours before his death that he had made his will, and provided liberally for me, and he said it was at that minute lying in his desk." "Are you sure you have quite recovered from the delirium of your fever?" inquired the widow, scornfully. "This must be one of the vagaries of illness." "I am as sane as you are, madam," said Bonnibel, indignantly. "Perhaps," sneered Mrs. Arnold, rustling uneasily in the folds of her heavy black crape. "However that may be, no will has been found, either in the desk or in the hands of his lawyer, where it should most probably be. The lawyer admits drawing one up for him years ago, but thinks he must have destroyed it later, as no trace of it can be found." "I have nothing to live upon, then," said Bonnibel, vaguely. She did not comprehend the extent of the calamity that had fallen upon her. Her sorrow was too fresh for her mind to dwell upon the possibilities of the future that lay darkly before her. "You have absolutely nothing," repeated Mrs. Arnold, grimly. "Your father left you nothing but _fame_; your uncle left you nothing but _love_. You will find it difficult to live upon either." Bonnibel stared at her blankly. "You are utterly penniless," Mrs. Arnold repeated, coarsely. "Then what am I to do?" asked the girl, gravely, twisting her little white hands uneasily together. "What do you suppose?" the lady inquired, with a significant glance. A scarlet banner fluttered into the white cheeks of the lovely invalid. The tone and glance of the coarse woman wounded her pride deeply. "You will want me to go away from here, I suppose," she answered, quietly. Mrs. Arnold straightened herself in her chair, and to Bonnibel's surprise assumed an air of wounded feeling.