“Mrs. Shepard asked me to come on up,” said Mrs. Harrod. She looked about her as if the room were empty. “Flora,” she demanded, “where’s that child?” She had laid eager hands upon Flora’s shoulders and kissed her flushed cheek with genuine affection. She had also taken a second to glance at the McKelvey girls and say: “How-do, young ladies?” “Child?” echoed Miss Baron. “That perfect little creature, who was here the last time I was. I did hope she’d let me in again. Such angelic manners! You don’t mean to say you’ve let her go?” “Oh, Bonnie May! No, she hasn’t gone. She’s quite one of us now. Where is she, Victor?” Baron fidgeted. “She went up into the attic, I believe.” Mrs. Harrod made for the hall immediately. “I’m sure you don’t mind,” she said, without turning around. They heard her climbing the second flight of stairs. “You young people won’t miss me,” she called back. The younger Miss McKelvey suddenly sat up very straight. “What’s the matter with you, Flora Baron?” she demanded. “The matter?” “The way you’re looking at Victor--yes, and the way he’s looking at you. What’s the mystery?” Flora listened. Up-stairs a door opened and shut, and then there was silence. “I was wondering if Mrs. Harrod would find things just to her liking up there,” she explained. “Oh! Well, if she doesn’t, it will be her own fault. People who take possession of a house can’t be too particular.” “I suppose not,” admitted Flora thoughtfully. She was listening intently again. There was a movement down-stairs. Mrs. Shepard was serenely complaining to herself on the ground of many interruptions. The street door opened and shut and Flora heard resonant, familiar tones. Baron heard them, too. “I’ll see,” Mrs. Shepard was heard to say, and then there was the sound of her heavy tread on the stairs. Again Flora and Victor looked at each other dubiously. “What _is_ the matter with you?” demanded Miss McKelvey--the other Miss McKelvey, this time. Flora leaned back against the mantel almost limply and laughed--not the laugh of Bonnie May’s lessons, but the old contralto gurgle. “Nothing,” she said. Her cheeks flamed, her eyes were filled with a soft light. “Mr. Addis has called to see Miss Baron,” announced Mrs. Shepard truculently in the doorway. “I’ll go right down,” said Flora. “Oh!” exclaimed the elder Miss McKelvey. “Oh!” echoed her sister. They arose as by a common impulse and stole out into the hall. “We don’t care if we do,” they flung back in a whisper as they tiptoed to the stair railing. They came hurrying back with ecstatic twitterings. “You know you never entertain company in that dark room down-stairs, Flora Baron! You’ve got to bring him up!” Flora gazed at them in rebellious misery. “Well, then,” exclaimed the younger Miss McKelvey, seizing her sister’s hand, “we’ll go up into the attic!” And they were gone. “Oh!” cried Flora hopelessly, “it shows what one criminal act will lead to!”