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 where else it would have hurt Miss Myra's feelings. On the sixth day Miss Myra so far unbent as to take Lanice to her own room where the shutters made perpetual night, although outside the sun was bright. Miss Myra lighted a candle and with some rheumatic difficulties got to her knees beside a red Chinese trunk, bound with brass.

'I took to you because I have known your face for so many years...longer than you have lived, I imagine.'

'Do I resemble my mother's people?'

'No, no, no, no,' the old lady frowned irritably and laid aside the Eastern gauzes and embroideries heavy with musk and sandalwood. She took out a gold filigree case, and with some staggering, muttering, and ineffectual aid from Lanice, got to her feet. She looked baleful and evil, like a witch cat, and Lanice, thinking of the women hanged upon the hill, could imagine this bitter lady in a halter.

'Open it,' she commanded. 'No one has seen it for forty years, not since Sister Poggy deserted Salem to go with that worthless husband to Boston.'

Lanice found herself face to face with a beautiful Indian or Persian miniature painted upon ivory. The girl she faced had long jet eyes, black silk hair, pale shapely face, and locked red mouth. She was heavy with jewels, ear-ringsearrings [sic], nose stud, bracelets, and necklaces. Her skin was so white as to seem opalescent, and her fingers were henna-dipped. Lanice could see the vague resemblance, but was amazed by the almost hypnotic, unearthly expression, a promise