There was, too, some dust, or powder, that must once have
been leaves, or perhaps roots. These unchancy things and the bag
that held them I dropped into the fire, breathing a sigh of relief
to see its red tooth seize upon them. The wax made a hissing noise,
and the dust of leaves, or whatever it was, burned with a bright,
fierce flame.
Then with feverish haste I got the Hynds jewels back into the
buckskin bag. I hadn't the faintest notion as to their actual value,
though I knew it must be considerable--enough to make up to Nicholas
Jelnik the losses he had sustained; enough to decide his fate--and
mine. Even now he was packing to go; even now there were "For Sale"
signs on the gray cottage.
I ran into our living-room, snatched my sewing-bag from the
sewing-stand, and dropped the heavy bag into it. That looked more
commonplace.
The clamor from the kitchen, incident upon Beautiful Dog's having
taken refuge under Mary Magdalen's skirts, had died down. I knew
that Beautiful Dog was licking his wounds after defeat, and the
Black cats, sedate and mild-mannered, were licking their paws after
victory. I determined that from that afternoon Beautiful Dog should
become an honored and important institution in Hynds House.
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