"I always hated that bureau-scarf. I always thought it foolish of aunt Tilworth to put it in my room. She has told me a dozen times that it was made by a favorite cousin who can never make any more like it because she's dead. I can't bear to think what she will say when she sees this." Priscilla went closer to the bureau. Fortunately the spot was on the plain material, some distance from the embroidery. It almost looked as if she might wash it out--if ink ever could be washed out. If it should stay, how could she ever explain the accident to her aunt, since it was an unwritten law of the house that ink was to be used only in the library? "This might help a little," she murmured, tearing off a small piece from her blotter, and applying it to the spot. But the ink had been so thoroughly absorbed that her efforts made no impression. Then she remembered something she had read and rushed to the kitchen. "A glass of milk, is it?" exclaimed the crabbed old cook; "and why didn't you send the housemaid?" But Priscilla secured the milk, and while she was busily mopping the spot, Martine appeared on the scene. "You queer child, what are you doing? That milk will certainly spoil the bureau." "Oh no, it's marble underneath." "But what are you doing? Oh, that spot? But you'll never get it out that way. You must use salts, salts of something, I forget its name, only it's deadly poison. They'll know what it is when you ask at the druggist's." "Nothing would induce me to touch poison. Please don't suggest such a thing." "But you're not going to taste it or give it to anyone. Just think what your aunt would say if she saw that spot!" "That's just what I have been thinking," said poor Priscilla, feebly. "I hate to have her know how careless I have been." "Then let me go--no, I am going anyway, I want to see how surprised the druggist will be when I ask for this salts of something or other." "He can't appear very surprised if you don't know its name." "Oh, I'll tell him it's a deadly poison, and that I want it immediately. Good-bye, Prissie dear, I'll soon be back, alive or dead." "Now cheer up, Miss Doleful," cried Martine, when she returned ten minutes later. "I got it easily enough, and the man hardly seemed surprised, though he put a little poison label on the box." Priscilla handled the box gingerly. "There, there," cried Martine, "it won't hurt you! Give it back!" And taking off the cover, she disclosed some innocent looking crystals. Moistening a few of these, she spread the pasty mass on the spot. "My, how it stings! My tongue is burning." "You didn't taste it! I thought you said it was poison?" "Oh, I got some on my fingers. But I know it won't hurt. But there," scraping the crystals from the spot, "it hasn't done a bit of good." "Yes, it has done a little. I think the ink is not quite so black. But a brown spot is about as bad as a black one." "I'll tell you what we ought to do," and Martine read the label on the box.