“No; I am asking pardon for myself, because I was the unwilling cause of it all. Won’t you forgive me, Richard?” “If I thought,” I said, “of calculating up all you have to answer to me for! I don’t feel very kind to you.” “Be unkind, then,” she said. “Only forgive me.” I struggled with myself a little. “I can’t,” I said at last. “I’m afraid I’m very vindictive, and must have my pound of flesh first.” “Take it of me,” she said at once, “in whatever way you like.” I laughed. “Fine heroic words! Would you submit to the process? I’m in the way to humble some folks.” “Richard,” she said, “remember who she is. Spare your mother. I’m ready to take the blame and the punishment for both.” She was certainly a young slight thing; prettyish in a fancy way; easy to bend or break. “You speak rashly,” I said. “I remember your story about the shepherd. Your petals would be pretty well rubbed by the time I’d done with you.” “Very well,” she said. “I’ll take the risk. I believe I know you better than you do yourself.” “Do you? I’ve half a mind, you little flower of fortune, to put you to the test.” “I’m waiting.” A stubborn devil was awake in me. “Are you offering yourself my slave, or what, Miss Morgiana?” “Your slave, if you like.” “Very well. The floor wants scrubbing, and there’s a well outside. Get some water and scrub it.” I thought she would fling away at once; but, instead, she took off her hat and jacket, found somewhere a pail and brush, and went outside very meekly. I listened wickedly. The windlass, I knew, would be a task for her chicken arms; and, indeed, I heard her plainly enough panting and struggling with it. But, for all that, she appeared presently, staggering, with her pail brimful; and I made no offer to relieve her of it. “Now,” I said, “I won’t be witness to your awkwardness. I’m going for a walk, and to think over more important difficulties than yours. But, when I come back, I shall expect to find the place cleaned and tidied, and you gone.” And I did. I gave her a couple of hours, before I returned whistling. The floor was white, the table laid for lunch, two eggs put in a cold saucepan by the grate, the fire piled up to smoulder, and a nosegay of red leaves and berries placed in a tumbler on the windowsill. The place looked neater and homelier than I had ever succeeded in making it, and Morgiana was gone. Of the eternal instinct are Eve’s daughters; and this one, it appeared, had no difficulty in “throwing back” from silks to homespun. That night came a very strange experience to me. CHAPTER VIII. THE WRITING ON THE WALL