again."

"I shall not be forbidden!" says Perpetua. She confronts her aunt with
flaming eyes and crimson cheeks. "I _do_ want to go to the theatre, and
to balls, and dances, and _everything_. I"--passionately, and with a
most cruel, despairing longing in her young voice, "want to dance, to
laugh, to sing, to amuse myself--to be the gayest thing in all the
world!"

She stops as if exhausted, surprised perhaps at her own daring, and
there is silence for a moment, a _little_ moment, and then Miss Majendie
looks at her.

"'The gayest thing in all the world:' _and your father only four months
dead_!" says she, slowly, remorselessly.

All in a moment, as it were, the little crimson angry face grows
white--white as death itself. The professor, shocked beyond words,
stands staring, and marking the sad changes in it. Perpetua is trembling
from head to foot. A frightened look has come into her beautiful
eyes--her breath comes quickly. She is as a thing at bay--hopeless,
horrified. Her lips part as if she would say something. But no words
come. She casts one anguished glance at the professor, and rushes from
the room.

It was but a momentary glimpse into a heart, but it was terrible. The
professor turns upon Miss Majendie in great wrath.

"That was cruel--uncalled for!" says he, a strange feeling in his heart
that he has not time to stop and analyze _then_. "How could you hurt her
so? Poor child! Poor girl! She _loved_ him!"

"Then let her show respect to his memory," says Miss Majendie
vindictively. She is unmoved--undaunted.

"She was not wanting in respect." His tone is hurried. This woman with
the remorseless eye is too much for the gentle professor. "All she
_does_ want is change, amusement. She is young. Youth must enjoy."

"In moderation--and in proper ways," says Miss Majendie stonily. "In
moderation," she repeats mechanically, almost unconsciously. And then
suddenly her wrath gets the better of her, and she breaks out into a
violent range. That one should dare to question _her_ actions! "Who are
_you_?" demands she fiercely, "that you should presume to dictate right
and wrong to _me_."

"I am Miss Wynter's guardian," says the professor, who begins to see
visions--and all the lower regions let loose at once. Could an original
Fury look more horrible than this old woman, with her grey nodding head,
and blind vindictive passion. He hears his voice faltering, and knows
that he is edging towards the door. After al