As I lay there I determined that at Christmas I would make another effort to get into rooms of my own choosing. If I wanted to ask Owen Gill, for instance, to come to see me, how could I do so? For one thing, his people would not like him to come here; for another, I should not myself care to ask him. I was by this time firmly convinced that my aunt was frequently more or less under the influence of drugs. It may have been on account of her illness; I could not say; but there were times when she seemed hardly to know what she was doing, and at such moments her dislike for me, which she usually more or less successfully concealed, jumped to the surface. I had no idea how long she had been in this condition; I was quite sure my father knew nothing about it; yet she appeared to me to have already lost something of her hold upon reality. I had heard her make statements so obviously untrue that they could have deceived nobody but Uncle George. I had heard her repeat a harmless remark made by Miss Izzy, and, by altering it ever so slightly, give it a quite new and highly disagreeable meaning. But Uncle George never dreamed of contradicting her, whether it was that he was afraid of her, or whether he was simply blind, I could not tell. On the Sunday after my becoming acquainted with Owen I was alone in the house with little Alice, who had been unwell and had not gone out with the others to morning church. As usual, she had climbed up on my knee, and was sitting with her thin brown arms round my neck, and her queer little face close to mine. “Ma looked through all your pockets yesterday morning, when you were at school,” she said. “What pockets?” I asked quietly. “The pockets of your clothes――every one.” “Well, did she find anything?” I murmured, in as indifferent a tone as I could manage. “She found a letter――and some other things.” “And did she read the letter?” “Yes.” “How do you know? Where were you?” “I saw her.” “How did you see her?” “I saw her through the key-hole.” “Oh; I didn’t think you would look through key-holes.” “Didn’t you? I do――often.” “You shouldn’t. It isn’t nice, you know. You must never do it again.” “Why?” “Because it’s not a nice thing to do. It’s spying.” “I’ve often done it,” said Alice, with perfect detachment. “I’ve looked at you through the key-hole.” “You must never do it again. Promise, or I won’t be friends with you any more.” “If I promise, will you be friends?” “Yes. But you must keep your promise, remember.” I returned to “Anna Karénine.” “I must buy a desk,” I thought, “or some kind of box I can lock up.” Presently little Alice began again. “I’ve got a secret.” I had lugubrious forebodings in regard to this secret. “Have you?” I answered dismally. “Don’t take any soup to-day,” the child said, softly.