She went on working at her fantasy, crooning a simple ditty, composed of many melodies running into one, as girls use when they are quite happy. The afternoon was hot. Outside, Elsie's windows looked upon a nest of little London gardens, where nasturtiums twisted round strings upon the walls; hollyhocks and sunflowers, which love the London smoke, lifted their heads; and Virginia creepers climbed to the house-tops. The little London gardens do sometimes look gay and bright in the yellow glow of a July afternoon. The window was open, and the room was almost as hot as the street outside; we get so few hot days that one here and there cannot be too hot. On the table lay a photograph of her lover; over the mantel hung her own drawing in Pastel of that swain; on her finger was his ring: round her neck lay his chain: all day long she was reminded of him, if she should cease for a moment to think of him. But there was no need of such reminder. It was Friday afternoon, four days after the great Discovery. Elsie had been informed of the event, the news of which she received after the feminine manner, with an ejaculation of surprise and an interjection of sympathy. But one cannot expect a girl on the eve of her marriage to be greatly distressed because her guardian, a rich man, is annoyed by the temporary loss of certain shares. And as to finding the criminal and getting back those shares--it was man's work. All the troublesome and disagreeable part of the world's work belongs to man. It was nearly five o'clock. Elsie was beginning to think that she had done enough, and that, after tea, a walk in the Gardens might be pleasant. Suddenly, without any noise or warning of steps outside, her door was opened and her sister Hilda appeared. Now, so swift is the feminine perception, that Elsie instantly understood that something had happened--something bad--something bad to herself. For first, the door was opened gently, as in a house of mourning; and next, Hilda had on a dress--lavender with heliotrope, costly, becoming, sympathetic, and sorrowful--a half-mourning dress--and she stood for a moment at the door with folded hands, her classical head inclined a little downward to the left, and her eyes drooping--an artistic attitude of sadness. Hilda not only said the right thing and held the proper sentiments, but she liked to assume the right attitude and to personate the right emotion. Now it is given to woman, and only to her when she is young, tall, and beautiful, to express by attitude all or any of the emotions which transport or torture her fellow-creatures. Hilda, you see, was an artist. 'Come in, dear,' said Elsie. 'I am sure that you have got something disagreeable to tell me.' Hilda kissed her forehead. 'My poor child,' she murmured. 'If it could have been told you by anybody else!' 'Well--let us hear it. Is it anything very disagreeable?' 'It is terrible. I tremble--I dare not tell you. Yet I must. You ought to know.'