"What picture?" he asked. He was really frightened at the anguished expression in Miss Nelson's matter-of-fact face.
"Mine," she answered, clasping his hand tighter. "My treasure, the picture of my——" here she broke off. "It is gone, Basil—see, and another put in its place! My miniature is gone! it has been stolen!"
"No, no," said Basil. "It couldn't have been. People don't steal pictures at the Chase. There are no thieves. Let me look for it for you."
"My miniature—my portrait. I don't speak of it—I can't!" Her voice shook. "No, no; it is gone. You see, Basil, it always hung here, and now another has been put on the same hook. That shows that the deed was intentional; the miniature is stolen!"
She sat down and clasped her hands over her face; her thin long fingers trembled.
"I'm awfully sorry for you," said Basil. He could not understand such emotion over any mere picture, but he had the kindest of hearts, and distress of any sort always moved him.
"I'm awfully sorry," he repeated.
Miss Nelson looked up at his tone.
"Basil," she said, "when you have very few things to love, you value the few intensely. I did—I do. You don't know, my boy, what it is to be a lonely woman. May you never understand my feelings. The miniature is gone; it was stolen, purposely."
"Oh, we'll find the thief," said Basil. "If you are sure the picture was taken, we'll make no end of a fuss, and my father will help. Of course you must not lose anything you value in this house. You shall have it back; we'll all see to that."