In what pleasant little
episode had Abbie flattered herself that this portrait, with its grave,
dark, baby eyes, its soft, light curls, its slender, solemn little face,
might be going to play a part? No matter: the hope was gone by; and
every day the portrait faded more and more indistinguishably into the
dark background. Abbie looked at it a moment or two only, then closed
the case, and carefully fastened the two little hooks which kept it
shut. Opening the old-fashioned desk, she put the daguerreotype in its
little drawer, and locked it up. She held the key--a small brass
key--between her finger and thumb, meditating. Presently she went to the
window, opened it, and looked out. Beneath, a little to one side, stood
a huge black water-butt, half buried in the earth, and partly full of
rain-water, contributed by the tin spout whose mouth opened above it.
Into this butt Abbie dropped the key. It struck the water with a faint
pat, and disappeared, causing two or three circles to expand to the
edges of the butt, against which they disappeared also.
She did not immediately draw back, but remained leaning with her arms
upon the window-sill. It was a beautiful, cool, September morning, such
as makes breathing and eyesight luxurious.
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