Bonnibel put her hand up to her brow and touched the soft, babyish rings of gold that began to cluster thickly about her blue-veined temples.
"It is growing out again very fast," she said; "and it does not matter any way. There is no one to care for my looks now," she added, thinking of the uncle and the lover who had doted so fondly on her perfect loveliness.
"It matters more than you think, Bonnibel," said Mrs. Arnold, sharply, the lines of vexation deepening in her face. "It behooves you to be as beautiful as you can now, for your face is your fortune."
"I do not understand you, aunt," said the young girl, gravely.
"It is time you should, then," was the vexed rejoinder, "I suppose you think now, Bonnibel, that your poor uncle has left you a fortune?"
Bonnibel looked at her in surprise, and the widow's eyes shifted uneasily beneath her gaze.
"Of course I believe that Uncle Francis has provided for my future," said the girl, quietly.
"You are mistaken, then," snapped the widow; "Mr. Arnold died without a will and failed to provide for either you or Felise. Of course, in that case, I inherit everything; and, as I remarked just now, your face is your fortune."
"My uncle died without a will!" repeated Bonnibel in surprise.
"Yes," Mrs. Arnold answered, coolly.