; and she contrived this to such an
effect of reality, and with such a diabolical affectation of
delicacy in referring to it, that the mere remark, with gentle
sympathy, "I think poor Hedrick is looking a little better
to-day," infallibly produced something closely resembling a spasm.
She formed the habit of never mentioning her brother in his
presence except as "poor Hedrick," a too obvious commiseration of
his pretended attachment--which met with like success. Most
dreadful of all, she invented romantic phrases and expressions
assumed to have been spoken or written by Hedrick in reference to
his unhappiness; and she repeated them so persistently, yet always
with such apparent sincerity of belief that they were quotations
from him, and not her inventions, that the driven youth knew a
fear, sometimes, that the horrid things were actually of his own
perpetration.

The most withering of these was, "Torn from her I love by the
ruthless hand of a parent. . . ." It was not completed; Cora never
got any further with it, nor was there need: a howl of fury
invariably assured her of an effect as satisfactory as could
possibly have been obtained by an effort less impressionistic.
Life became a series of easy victories for Cora, and she made them
somehow the more deadly for Hedrick by not seeming to look at him
in his affliction, nor even to be aiming his way: he never could
tell when the next shot was coming. At the table, the ladies of
his family might be deep in dress, or discussing Mr. Madison's
slowly improving condition, when Cora, with utter irrelevance,
would sigh, and, looking sadly into her coffee, murmur, "Ah,
_fond_ mem'ries!" or, "_Why_ am I haunted by the dead past?" or,
the dreadful, "Torn from her I love by the ruthless hand of a
parent. . . ."

There was compassion in Laura's eyes and in his mother's, but Cora
was irresistible, and they always ended by laughing in spite of
themselves; and though they pleaded for Hedrick in private, their
remonstrances proved strikingly ineffective. Hedrick was the only
person who had ever used the high hand with Cora: she found
repayment too congenial. In the daytime he could not go in the
front yard, but Cora's window would open and a tenderly smiling
Cora lean out to call affectionately, "Don't walk on the
grass--darling little boy!" Or, she would nod happily to him and
begin to sing:

"Oh come beloved, love let me press thee,
While I caress thee
In one long