Miss Eunice came in that moment and startled them. She disapproved of their startled expression, he gave Alcott a gloomy greeting and went away. “There's a chest of tools in the storeroom,” Camilla said. “We'll go up there.” They mounted to that high-perched room above the mansards, whose windows looked eastward to the river, whose walls were ranged about with boxes, trunks, chests, bits of aged furniture. Here Richard the Second and Camilla, the little maid, used to sit the long rainy afternoons at their labor. He made bridges, houses, and ships, his artistry running no further than scroll and square patterns, while Camilla aspired to the human face divine. Her soul was creative at ten years. She cut ominous faces on pine shingles, sorrowful shapes--tombstone cherubs in execution, symbolic in intention--and her solemn exaltation of mood was commonly followed by anger and tears because Dick would not admire them. It was a room full of memories for Camilla. Here and in her father's library she still passed her happiest hours. Here was the trunk that held her retired dolls and baby relics. Another was full of her mother's blue-ribboned gowns. Here was the tool chest, close to the window. She flung it open, making a great noise and business. “See! Will this do?” It was a heavy carpenter's chisel with a scroll design on one side of the battered handle, and on the other the crude semblance or intention of a woful face. “I don't know whether it's Dick's or mine. We both used to make messes here.” She chattered on, and thought the while, “He called me Camilla--I wish--I wonder if he will again.” He thrust it into an inner pocket, ripping through the lining of his coat. She closed the lid, and turned about to the low-silled window, clasped her hands about her knees, and stared away into the tree tops, flushed and smiling. “You needn't go yet?” “It's three o'clock.” “You'll come and tell me to-morrow? When?”. Alcott did not seem to hear her. “I'm sure I could take care of him now,” he said. “But you'll remember that I helped!” “Does anyone ever forget you?” Both were silent, and then he started up nervously. “It isn't done yet. Lolly is clever. He lived here four years and kept out of my sight. But, afterwards, granted he succeeds--but the law is a great octopus. Its arms are everywhere. But he'll have me with him. I suppose we must go out of the country.” “You! Do you mean--do you--you'll go too!” “Go! Could I stay?” “Oh! I don't know! I don't know!” She shivered and leaned against the friendly old chest. “But could I do it without that? How could I? I couldn't do less than that.” He came and sat beside her again, clasping his knees in the same way, looking off into the tree tops, talking slowly and sadly.