while the
other end went with me, so that neither of us should get lost. This is
an allusion to a habit which I and my property have of finding
ourselves individually and collectively left in the lurch. After this
initial shot, everybody considered himself at liberty to let off his
rusty old blunderbuss, and there was a constant peppering. But my veil
never lowered its colors nor curtailed its resources. Alas! what
ridicule and contumely failed to effect, destiny accomplished.
Softness and plenitude are no shields against the shafts of fate.

I went into the station waiting-room to write a note. I laid my
bonnet, my veil, my packages upon the table. I wrote my note. I went
away. The next morning, when I would have arrayed myself to resume my
journey, there was no veil. I remembered that I had taken it into the
station the night before, and that I had not taken it out. At the
station we inquired of the waiting-woman concerning it. It is as much
as your life is worth to ask these people about lost articles. They
take it for granted at the first blush that you mean to accuse them of
stealing. "Have you seen a brown veil lying about anywhere?" asked
Crene, her sweet bird-voice warbling out from her sweet rose-lips.
"No, I 'a'n't seen nothin' of it," says Gnome, with magnificent
indifference.

"It was lost here last night," continues Crene, in a soliloquizing
undertone, pushing investigating glances beneath the sofas.

"I do' know nothin' about it. _I_ 'a'n't took it"; and the Gnome
tosses her head back defiantly. "I seen the lady when she was
a-writin' of her letter, and when she went out ther' wa'n't nothin'
left on the table but a hangkerchuf, and that wa'n't hern. I do' know
nothin' about it, nor I 'a'n't seen nothin' of it."

O no, my Gnome, you knew nothing of it; you did not take it. But since
no one accused or even suspected you, why could you not have been less
aggressive and more sympathetic in your assertions? But we will plough
no longer in that field. The ploughshare has struck against a rock and
grits, denting its edge in vain. My veil is gone,--my ample, historic,
heroic veil. There is a woman in Fontdale who breathes air filtered
through--I will not say STOLEN tissue, but certainly through tissue
which was obtained without rendering its owner any fair equivalent.
Does not every breeze that softly stirs its fluttering folds say to
her, "O friend, this veil is not yours, not yours," and st