ed into the house yesterday noon. Edna stooped and lifted the bag.
It was heavy and stiff. She brought it out into the room, and opened it
with some shrinking. What met her eyes were a number of sheets of brown
wrapping-paper. She drew one partly out. It was apparently smeared with
dark paint. Hastily pulling the paper from the bag, she beheld a sketch
of Beacon Island. She hurried over to the bed, and with eager hands
drew sheet after sheet from the bag and spread them out. They formed
three rows of sketches on the white coverlet, and Edna's eyes sparkled
with interest as she recognized the subjects. The work had apparently
been done with some blunt instrument instead of a brush. The effects
were broad, after the manner of a charcoal drawing.

Edna compressed her lips as she gazed. Suddenly she crossed to an open
window and leaned out. Fortune favored her. John Dunham was strolling
in sight beyond the piazza. She called him softly. He heard, and she
beckoned him beneath the window. "Can you come up here," she asked,
"without letting the others know?"

Dunham assented with alacrity; but thought flies fast, and he had time
for many misgivings as he mounted the stairs in bounds. Was Edna about
to have it out with Sylvia, and was he being called as a witness to
face a culprit and prove a position? If so, he promptly decided to have
an acute attack of paresis.

Sylvia's door was ajar, and Edna standing by the bedside. "I needed
somebody, and I chose you," she said over her shoulder. "Come and see
what Sylvia has done."

Her tone was excited, and Dunham's heart beat fast as he paused at the
door. What had Sylvia done?

CHAPTER XXX

THE LIGHT BREAKS

"Come here," said Edna, and moving aside she indicated the sketches.
John drew near. "This is what was in that pillow slip yesterday."

Dunham regarded the rough work with large eyes. "By Jove!" he
exclaimed. "She has it in her, hasn't she?"

"Just see the composition," returned Edna. "See the directness."

"What's it done with?" asked Dunham. "Not a brush."

"No, some sort of a stump; and it's such a queer color. I've been
trying to make out--John Dunham!" Edna's tone suddenly changed. "This
is that blueberry juice!"

Dunham's mouth fell open. The two stood staring at each other, and, as
many perceptions and explanations flowed into their thought, they
colored slowly, and as richly as sunburn would permit.

"That is the love philtre, John," said Edna, whe