At the same spot the music again came to a halt, then without warning a frightful jangling chord which seemed to have been struck with four or five hands at once was wrenched out, as though some gigantic claw had reached down and ripped the wires across the whole width of the piano. The cruel, thunderous discord made Paul jump. With a queer presentiment he stepped back from the window, hesitated, then ran around the house to the kitchen door. On opening it he caught sight of Becky standing agape, her eyes on Aunt Verona, who, with feverish energy, was snatching piles of manuscript from the drawer of the dresser and tossing them on the floor. When the last sheet of foolscap had been added to the pile, she thrust in the drawer and began to gather the sheets into her arms. Her manner reminded Paul of the day when she had destroyed the books, and he stepped forward apprehensively.
"Out of my way, child!" commanded Aunt Verona, pushing him aside as she proceeded toward the stove.
Her face! He was too astounded by it to be terrified.
He resisted and caught her arms. "No, no, Aunt Verona," he implored, in hysterical tones. "Please, please don't burn the story!"
His resistance was in vain. She had seized the poker and prodded up the stove-lid.
"Story!" she cried, with a harsh laugh. "Story! It's me—me! My cremation! There! There! There!" She fed the flames with one hand and poked at the burning pages with the other, while Paul succumbed to an overwhelming sense of impotence.
"It isn't right to do that!" he reproached in a despairing sob. "It's wrong!"
She gave no heed. Her eyes were glittering, her grey lips pressed together.
"Oh," he finally wailed, "I think you're mean, mean, mean!"
