“And what do you think I did?” said Eoa, half crying, and half laughing: “I set a fishhook with a spring to it, so that the moment she lifted the cover, the barb would go into her hand; and the next day she had a bad finger, and said that little Flore bit it by accident while she was feeling her tooth, which is loose. I should like to have seen her getting the barb out of her nasty little velvet paw.” “I am quite surprised,” cried Amy; “and we all call you so simple—a mere child of nature! If so, nature is up to much more than we give her credit for. And pray, what is your next device?” “Oh, nothing at all, till she does something. I am quits with her now; and I cannot scheme as she does.” Suddenly Amy put both her hands on Eoaʼs graceful shoulders, and poured the quick vigour of English eyes into the fathomless lustre of darkly–fringed Oriental orbs. “You will not tell me a story, dear, if I ask you very particularly?” “I never tell stories to any one; you might know that by this time. At any rate, not to my friends.” “No, I donʼt think you would. Now, do you think that Mrs. Corklemore is at the bottom of this vile thing?” “What vile thing? The viler it is, the more likely she is to have done it.” “Oh no, she cannot have done it, though she may have had something to do with it. I mean, of course, about poor Cradock.” “What about Cradock? I love Cousin Cradock, because he is so unlucky; and because you like him, dear.” “Donʼt you know it? You must have seen that I was in very poor spirits. And this made me feel it so much the more, when you said what you did. We have heard that an application has been made in London, at the Home Office, or somewhere, that a warrant should be issued against Cradock Nowell, and a reward be offered for him as——Oh, my Cradock, my Craddy!” “Put your head in here, darling. What a brute you must have thought me! Oh, I do so love you. Donʼt think twice about it, dear. I will take care that it all comes right. I will go to London to–day, dearest, and defy them to dare to do it. And Iʼll open that letter at once. It becomes a duty now; as that nasty beast always says, when she wants to do anything wrong.” “No, no!” sobbed Amy, “you have no right to open her letter, and you shall not do it, Eoa, unless my father says that it is right. Will you promise me that, dear? Oh, do promise me that.” “How can I promise that, when I would not have him know, for a lac of rupees, that I had ever stolen it? He would never perceive how right it was; and, though I donʼt know much about people, I am sure he would never forgive me. He is such a fidget. But I will promise you one thing, Amy—not to open it without _your_ leave.” Amy was obliged at last to be contented with this; though she said it was worse than nothing, for it forced the decision upon her; and, scrupulously honest and candid as she was, she would feel it right to settle the point against her own desires.