My brother was extremely attached to this paper-weight, partly, I’m afraid, because it proclaimed his intimacy with the great man. For this reason it was known in the family ironically as the Token. It stood on Donald’s writing-table at his elbow, so near the ink-pot that the white Buddha had received a splash or two. And this evening Cicely had come in to us in the library, and had annoyed Donald by staying in it when he wanted her to go. She had taken up the Token, and was cleaning it to give herself a pretext. She died after the quarrel they had then. It began by Donald shouting at her. “What are you doing with that paper-weight?” “Only getting the ink off.” I can see her now, the darling. She had wetted the corner of her handkerchief with her little pink tongue and was rubbing the Buddha. Her hands had begun to tremble when he shouted. “Put it down, can’t you? I’ve told you not to touch my things.” [Illustration: “I’ve told you not to touch my things.”] “_You_ inked him,” she said. She was giving one last rub as he rose, threatening. “Put—it—down.” And, poor child, she did put it down. Indeed, she dropped it at his feet. “Oh!” she cried out, and stooped quickly and picked it up. Her large tear-glassed eyes glanced at him, frightened. “He isn’t broken.” “No thanks to you,” he growled. “You beast! You know I’d die rather than break anything you care about.” “It’ll be broken some day, if you _will_ come meddling.” I couldn’t bear it. I said, “You mustn’t yell at her like that. You know she can’t stand it. You’ll make her ill again.” That sobered him for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said; but he made it sound as if he wasn’t. “If you’re sorry,” she persisted, “you might let me stay with you. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.” “No; I don’t want you—I can’t work with you in the room.” “You can work with Helen.” “You’re not Helen.” “He only means he’s not in love with _me_, dear.” “He means I’m no use to him. I know I’m not. I can’t even sit on his manuscripts and keep them down. He cares more for that damned paper-weight than he does for me.” “Well—George Meredith gave it me.” “And nobody gave you me. I gave myself.” That worked up his devil again. He _had_ to torment her. “It can’t have cost you much,” he said. “And I may remind you that the paper-weight has _some_ intrinsic value.” With that he left her. “What’s he gone out for?” she asked me. “Because he’s ashamed of himself, I suppose,” I said. “Oh, Cicely, why _will_ you answer him? You know what he is.” “No!” she said passionately—“that’s what I don’t know. I never have known.” “At least you know he’s in love with you.” “He has a queer way of showing it, then. He never does anything but stamp and shout and find fault with me—all about an old paper-weight!” She was caressing it as she spoke, stroking the alabaster Buddha as if it had been a live thing.