XI. I ADD THE LAST TOUCH TO A PORTRAIT That same night, while undressing, with my room door open for the heat, I suddenly thought I distinguished an unwonted footstep on the landing below me, from which Patty’s little chamber led. I listened, quite still, for some moments; then, the stealthy sounds seeming to recede into the hall and thence die away, descended cat-footed to the landing, and, after hearkening an instant, opened her door swiftly and noiselessly upon my friend. Instantly I knew that the amazed suspicion which had sprung upon my heart was justified. The child stood before me, terror in her startled eyes, her dark hair falling upon her shoulders, a brush in one hand, a paper in the other. “Diana!” she gasped, in a whisper. “What do you want?” “Has he been with you?” I asked instantly, leaving her no time to prevaricate. “_With_ me!” she exclaimed, so scandalised and incredulous that the worst of my qualm was laid on the spot. Without another word I held out my hand. Without a word she put the paper into it. I took it, and read-- “Mignonette, Mignonette, Of all flowers the pet,”-- (“O, shameful!” I whispered, and set my lips.) “O, beautiful, beautiful, sweet Mignonette! Dear, kind little blossom, Soft, soft in the bosom, Who gives to thee, takes from thee, sweet Mignonette? Was it thou at her ear that shed sweets passing by me? Is it thou in her shape, or herself that doth fly me? Is it thou, is it she, Mignonette, Mignonette, That I follow, must follow, As the Summer the Spring, Who hides warm in the wing Of its darling the swallow? As love chases the swallow To the eaves and the leaves High up under the roof, Mignonette, so I follow. Ah! to whose little chamber, Sweetheart? As I clamber, I trow not, I know not What dream flew before to the room high aloof. But my heart pants delight In the thought, half a fright, Half delirious sweetness, That the spirit of the flower, That the spirit of the hour Shall reveal love’s completeness.” She was as pale as death and trembling all over as I looked up. For the moment my heart withered to her. The shock, the outrage was unendurable. “Who wrote this?” I demanded, in a hoarse whisper. She did not answer. “Speak,” I said. “How did it come to you?” “I heard it slipped under the door,” she muttered. “By him? O, you little traitor and wanton!” She fell on her knees, sobbing and clinging to me in a soft anguish of desperation. “O, my dear, don’t look at me so! I’m not untrue to you. I never imagined it was me--no, not for one moment--till to-night.” “And you are shocked, no doubt, to find your precious virtue at fault. O, you little serpent that I have trusted and warmed in my bosom!” “Diana!” she wept, in a very frenzy of despair. “O, what can I say or do? I thought it was you. It shall be you, Diana!”