"This might help a little," she murmured, tearing off a small piece from her blotter, and applying it to the spot. But the ink had been so thoroughly absorbed that her efforts made no impression. Then she remembered something she had read and rushed to the kitchen.
"A glass of milk, is it?" exclaimed the crabbed old cook; "and why didn't you send the housemaid?" But Priscilla secured the milk, and while she was busily mopping the spot, Martine appeared on the scene.
"You queer child, what are you doing? That milk will certainly spoil the bureau."
"Oh no, it's marble underneath."
"But what are you doing? Oh, that spot? But you'll never get it out that way. You must use salts, salts of something, I forget its name, only it's deadly poison. They'll know what it is when you ask at the druggist's."
"Nothing would induce me to touch poison. Please don't suggest such a thing."
"But you're not going to taste it or give it to anyone. Just think what your aunt would say if she saw that spot!"
"That's just what I have been thinking," said poor Priscilla, feebly. "I hate to have her know how careless I have been."
"Then let me go—no, I am going anyway, I want to see how surprised the druggist will be when I ask for this salts of something or other."
"He can't appear very surprised if you don't know its name."