place, and
it was not in Rhoda's power to give it back to her. But Miss Quincey
never saw it; for a subtler web than that of Rhoda's spinning was woven
about her eyes.

Possibly in some impressive and inapparent way her unhappy little
favourite Laura Lazarus may have been glad to see her back again, though
the two queer creatures exchanged no greeting more intimate than an
embarrassed smile. In this rapidly-advancing world the Mad Hatter alone
remained where Miss Quincey had left her. She explained at some length
how the figures twisted themselves round in her head and would never stay
the same for a minute together. Miss Quincey listened patiently to this
explanation; she was more indulgent, less persistent than before.

Under that veil of illusion she herself had become communicative. She
went up and down between the classes and poured out her soul as to an
audience all interest, all sympathy. There was a certain monotony about
her conversation since the epoch of her illness. It was, "Oh yes, I am
quite well now, thank you. Dr. Cautley is so very clever. Dr. Cautley has
taken splendid care of me. Dr. Cautley has been so very kind and
attentive, I think it would be ungrateful of me if I had not got well.
Dr. Cautley--" Perhaps it was just as well for Miss Quincey that the
staff were too busy to attend to her. The most they noticed was that in
the matter of obstruction Miss Quincey was not quite so precipitate as
she had been. She offended less by violent contact and rebound than by
drifting absently into the processions and getting mixed up with them.

Rhoda saw a change in her; Rhoda was never too busy to spare a thought
for Miss Quincey. "Yes," she said, "you _are_ better. Your eyes are
brighter."

"That," said Miss Quincey, with simple pride "is the arsenic. Dr. Cautley
is giving me arsenic."

Now arsenic (like happiness) has some curious properties. It looks most
innocently like sugar, which it is not. A little of it goes a long way
and undoubtedly acts as a tonic; a little more may undermine the stoutest
constitution, and a little too much of it is a deadly poison and kills
you. As yet Miss Quincey had only taken it in microscopic doses.
Something had changed her; it may have been happiness, it may have been
illusion; whatever it was Miss Quincey thought it was the arsenic--if it
was not the weather, the very remarkable weather. For that year Spring
came with a burst.

Indeed there is seldom anything shy an