"She _will_ object when she learns how disrespectful Martine has been to me. As if I did not know how to arrange my own furniture." Again Priscilla felt like smiling. Martine's hints had been understood, even though they might not be followed. Mrs. Tilworth was a fair-minded woman, and after expressing herself clearly on the subject of Martine's misdeeds, she did not try to make her niece more uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Priscilla's dinner hour that evening was far from cheerful. She wondered if it might not be wiser, as well as more honest, to tell her aunt of her own mishap of the afternoon. Yet the more she thought of it, the less inclined was she to do this. She clung to the hope that with a further effort she could make the scarf as good as new. That night she dreamed of wading through rivers of ink, and in her dreams she saw the bust of Julius Cæsar sitting on a bridge with many small black ink-spots mottling the bald head. In the intervals between her dreams she tossed about restlessly, and she thought of all the little criticisms that she had ever heard anyone make about Mrs. Tilworth. "After all, she isn't my real aunt," she murmured; "only my uncle's widow, and I suppose she just hates to have me here. But she has a kind of family pride, and thinks that it will help mamma. I know the house is furnished queerly. I heard mamma say that it is neither antique, nor modern--only second-rate. Those black walnut things are always ugly, even Martine knows better." Yet in all her ruminations Priscilla had to admit that Mrs. Tilworth had always treated her kindly. She had no real grievance against her aunt. She was merely afraid of the reproof that her carelessness merited. Now it was one of Mrs. Tilworth's theories that a girl should make her own bed and dust her own furniture. It was a theory, too, that she put into practice. Except on sweeping days, Priscilla took entire care of her own room. Sometimes she begrudged the time that she had to spend in this way. But on the morning after Martine's visit she was pleased that no housemaid had the right to handle the things on her bureau. Now, as this was Saturday morning, Priscilla took more time than usual dusting and arranging things generally. She did not dare move the corpulent pincushion lest someone should come in upon her while she was examining the ink mark. She knew that her aunt had a morning engagement, and while she worked she listened eagerly for the closing of the front door that would show that her aunt had departed. But alas for her calculations! While she was still dusting her mantle-piece, Mrs. Tilworth, with hat and coat on, entered the room.