Meantime Catharine had gone back to the library. She would summon no help, but, closing the door which shut her out from the rest of the house, began to work diligently, cleansing the books from dust, and re-arranging everything exactly as she had found it. In the progress of her task, she was constantly falling upon some new object of interest. The books we have spoken of held forth a sort of enchantment which turned her from work. The bronze medallions took a new interest after the dust had been removed from their delicate lines. But beyond this was a vague feeling that she had a personal interest in redeeming those beautiful objects from neglect. The very atmosphere of the place seemed familiar, as if she had breathed it before. At any rate, a new vista of life opened to her from that room. It contained the means of knowledge, the power which should be to her in the place of lost happiness. In a day or two this room was entirely in order, but it was only at intervals that Catharine could visit it, and her labors were performed with a guilty feeling, as if every wave of her brush must inflict a pang upon the old people who trusted her so thoroughly. Had any one asked the girl why it was that she left the pictures to the last, and the meaning of the strange thrill that checked her whenever she approached them, no answer could have been obtained. She would have called it a foolish superstition, perhaps. Indeed, she did chide herself more than once for the vague feeling that possessed her, and imputed it to the general impression that she was intruding on sacred grounds, which had seized upon her from the first. When all was finished, the crimson drapery taken from the table and arranged that it might flow over the bay window, or fall in rich waves against the black-walnut casement on each side; when the great library-chairs were dusted and in place, and the mosaic table shone out clear and bright, with the bird-cage in the centre, she turned slowly and walked toward the pictures. Again the strange chill arrested her. A thin veil of gauze hung like a dusty cobweb over the paintings, and the frames gleamed out dim and misty from the crimson walls. She stood and wondered, holding her breath. How many years had that dusty web concealed the canvas which she was hesitating to look upon? Who had placed it there? Why had it never been removed? Perhaps it might prove the portrait of old Mr. Ford, or that dear old gentlewoman, his wife. These thoughts kept her motionless till curiosity became painful. With a faint laugh at her own irresolution, she sprang upon a library-chair and tore away the gauze. What a beautiful creature she must have been, this Elsie Ford, with those lustrous eyes, that peachy bloom of the cheek, and those lips so full and ripe, like strawberries with the June sunshine upon them, the smile hovering like the shadow of a honey-bee about the mouth, dimpling it softly at the corners. How beautiful Elsie Ford must have been!