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"How do I know who is guilty?" snapped Jen. "I wish I did! I'd hang him or her. But this black wretch and her confounded mistress have to do with the death of my poor boy, I am certain." "Baal! the wand of sleep! the bringer of death!" "My poor uncle," he said in a low voice. "I cannot tell you what I feel. Etwald telegraphed to me the first thing in the morning, and I came down by the earliest train there was. Poor Maurice!--and we parted in anger.".

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She knew very well what it was, for her grandmother had been carried off as a slave from the west coast of Africa, and knew all about Ashantee sorcery and fetish rites. These she had repeated to her granddaughter Dido, with the result that Dido, cherishing these recollections, knew exactly how to use the wand of sleep. She had spoken about it to Dr. Etwald, quite ignorant that Jen kept one as a curiosity, and now Etwald had intimated through Battersea that he wished her to do something in connection with the stick. What that something might be Dido at the present moment could not guess. Her eyes sought the pale pure outline of Elinor's profile, caught between the intervening faces, and held it during the brief explanatory speech, wherein Mr. Benton paid his tribute to Elinor's generous silence, and apologized in the name of the Board for the unjust accusation. She saw the wave of color sweep over it at the commendatory words, and the dark eyes fall under the shame of the hinted treachery of the unnamed student whose face was in every one's mind. Then at the next words she saw the light flash into full radiance, as Mr. Benton, with something in his extended hand, turned full toward Elinor where she sat. "I got my criticism! And he said the work was good! Now I can write to Bruce," and her voice rang with a thrilling note of joy that carried Patricia with her. "Did you know?" she asked breathlessly. "Did anyone know she was going to get it?".