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 reached forth to do it. But a second thought made her pause. She could not lock it again, and the act would be at once discovered. Was it worth while—now? Was there not perhaps a better time? Mercedes Centi reflected, and, having done so, turned her back on the little door and went away with light, buoyant steps. For several days thereafter the Imp was observed to feel a strong but discreet interest in candles. The inspector of the dormitory, Sister Italia, noticed this, and her heart sank. Something was in the wind, but what? She carefully confiscated the candle-ends the Imp had concealed under her little bureau, but even as she did so she felt she was but deferring for a time some new and deadly move.

The Imp discovered her loss a few hours later, but it did not disturb her. She had another candle-end in a second hiding-place, and it was her distinct purpose to use it that night as soon as the dormitory was silent and Sister Italia, in her distant corner, was asleep. Nights were trying times for the Imp, who did not sleep well; it was an exceptional occasion when she did not rouse the long-suffering Sister Italia by some startling and absurd demand. But to-night she was so quiet that the tired nun, who should have known better, thought she was asleep, and