Rudyard Kipling Dey, aren’t angry, are you?” “What? Say that again.” The man’s hand had closed on her wrist. “I rubbed it out with turps and the knife,” faltered Bessie. “I thought you'd only have to do it over again. You did do it over again, didn’t you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you're hurting me.” “Isn’t there anything left of the thing?” “N’nothing that looks like anything. I’m sorry — I didn’t know you'd take on about it; I only meant to do it in fun. You aren’t going to hit me?” “Hit you! No! Let’s think.” He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but stood staring at the carpet. Then he shook his head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of the stock-whip cross his nose warns him back to the path on to the shambles that he would escape. For weeks he had forced himself not to think of the Melancholia, because she was a part of his dead life. With Bessie’s return and certain new prospects that had developed themselves, the Melancholia — lovelier in his imagination than she had ever been on canvas — reappeared. By her aid he might have procured more money wherewith to amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another taste of an almost forgotten success. Now, thanks to a vicious little housemaid’s folly, there was nothing to look for — not even the hope that he might some day take an abiding interest in the housemaid. Worst of all, he had been made to appear ridiculous in Maisie’s eyes. A woman will forgive the man who has ruined her life’s work so long as he gives her love; a man may forgive those who ruin the love of his life, but he will never forgive the destruction of his work. “Tek — tck — tck,” said Dick between his teeth, and then laughed softly. “It’s an omen, Bessie, and —a good many things considered, it serves me right for doing