When the door closed on Madoline, Daphne rose and changed her crumpled muslin for a dressing-gown, and brushed the bright silky hair and rolled it up in a loose knot at the back of her head, and bathed her feverish face, and put on a fresh gown, and made herself altogether a respectable young person. Then she seated herself before a dressing-table, which was littered all over with trinket-boxes and miscellaneous trifles more or less indispensable to a young lady’s happiness. She had acquired a larger collection of jewellery than is usually possessed by a girl of eighteen. There were all Madoline’s birthday and New Year gifts: rings, lockets, bracelets, brooches, all in the simplest style, as became her youth, but all valuable after their kind. And there were Edgar’s presents: a broad gold bracelet, set with pearls, to match her necklace; a locket with her own and her lover’s initials interwoven in a diamond monogram; a diamond and turquoise cross; and the engagement ring—a half-hoop of magnificent opals. ‘I wonder why he chose opals,’ mused Daphne, as she put the ring into the purple-velvet case in which it had come from the jeweller’s. ‘Most people think them unlucky; but it seems as if my life was to be overshadowed with omens.’ She put all her lover’s presents together, and packed them neatly in a sheet of drawing-paper, the largest and strongest kind of wrapper she could find. Then, when she had lighted her taper and carefully sealed this packet, she wrote upon it: ‘For Edgar, with Daphne’s love’—a curious way in which to return a jilted lover’s gifts. Then she sat for some time with the rest of her treasures opened out before her on the table where she wrote her letters, and finally she wrapped up each trinket separately, and wrote on each packet. On one: ‘For Madame Tolmache;’ on another: ‘For Miss Toby;’ on a third: ‘For Martha Dibb.’ On a box containing her neatest brooch she wrote: ‘For dear old Spicer.’ There were others inscribed with other names. She forgot no one; and then at the last she sat looking dreamily at a little ring, the first she had ever worn—best loved of all her jewels, a single heart-shaped turquoise set in a slender circlet of plain gold. Madoline had sent it to her on her thirteenth birthday. The gold was worn and bent with long use, but the stone had kept its colour. ‘I should like him to have something that was mine,’ she said to herself; and then she put the ring into a tiny cardboard box, and sealed it in an envelope, on which she wrote: ‘For Mr. Goring.’ This was the last of her treasures, except the pearl necklace which she always wore—her amulet, as she called it—and now she put all the neat little packages carefully away in her desk, and on the top of them she laid a slip of paper on which she had written: ‘If I should die suddenly, please let these parcels be given as I have directed.’