“Oh, dear!” said Mary to herself. “I believe we are coming to another Secret!” And she felt her heart give a little jump of excitement. “‘_My portrait._’ There is only one portrait of Aunt Nan.” And she glanced up at the picture over the fireplace. Then, indeed, she noticed how the firelight was making Aunt Nan’s queer eyes dance and glitter, and how her mouth seemed to be smiling in the most knowing way. “_Look here upon this picture_, THEN ON THIS.” What did the last part of this line, doubly underscored, mean to Aunt Nan? Mary studied the picture long and earnestly. There was something about it that she did not quite understand. It was as if Aunt Nan were trying to tell her something, but could not make the words plain. Mary felt that she almost had the clue to something--but not quite. Caliban did not seem to help her. If John were only here; John was so good at guessing riddles! Mary put down Caliban, who promptly jumped up onto the desk. Then she ran out into the hall and called, “John! John!” for she knew that he was in the house, probably, as usual, ravenous for tea. “Come to the library, John!” she called again, in answer to his “Hello! What?”--“I think it’s another Secret. Quick!” she added, to bring him the sooner. Down came clattering boots, and John dashed into the room all excitement. “What’s up?” he asked eagerly. And Mary showed him the line. “H’m!” commented John, looking at the portrait curiously. “She does look sly, doesn’t she, Mary? But you haven’t looked up the other thing yet. I say, hurry! Let’s see what your old ‘Othello’ has to tell about it.” Sure enough! Mary had forgotten the reference to “Othello.” Hurriedly she got out the proper volume, and turned to the right page and line. “_A fixéd figure for the time of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at._” She read slowly. “What in the world does that mean? I’m sure I don’t know.” John had been all this time studying the portrait with its queer expression. When Mary read the quotation he clapped his hands. “Oh, I say!” he cried. “It talks about a _finger_, pointing. That’s it! She means the hand of the portrait is pointing to something. It has been pointing all the time, and we’ve only got to find out _what at_! Look, Mary. Don’t you see she is pointing, just as plainly as can be?” Mary dropped “Othello” and ran to look at the picture. The queer eyes of Aunt Nan seemed to meet hers, and yes! she certainly seemed to be pointing with the long forefinger of her right hand which rested on her breast. Mary followed the direction of the pointing finger, as John was trying to do in the fading light. It seemed to point to a corner of the wall on which the portrait itself hung; to a shelf in the left-hand alcove by the fireplace. Both Mary and John ran eagerly to the corner and began to sight from finger to shelf and back again, to get a straight line from the pointing finger.