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"Bruce Haydon!" exclaimed Patricia, astonished. "Why, he's in Italy, isn't he? Elinor had a letter yesterday——" The hours dragged heavily along in that house of mourning. The body of the dead man lay in the little chamber which looked out upon the laurel-encircled lawn. It was covered with a white sheet, the hands were folded upon the breast, and flowers had been laid thereon by the major. Over the face a handkerchief had been thrown, as the once handsome features were so discolored as to be absolutely repulsive to the sight. There was something terrible in the rigidity of the long form, stretched out so stiffly under the sheet. In the chamber candles were burning, and Jaggard was watching near the corpse. He was to watch throughout the night. "Ever since that handkerchief has been removed sir," said she, earnestly, "Jaggard has got well. I do believe, sir, that the scent on it kept the poor dear stupid." "Don't tell him, for the world!" cried Patricia, her brow wrinkling at the thought of that noted artist's surprise. "I shouldn't have dared to take the course if he was ever to see anything I did! I'm only going into it for fun, and I shouldn't have dreamed of doing it if it hadn't been the cheapest course in the whole school. You know I shouldn't have, Elinor dear, so please don't tell.".