The note was one of the old brown ones of that period. I stared at it with hatred, for somehow, quite illogically, it seemed to be the price at which my heart had been valued, fit to be given for some Potter's Field, to bury strangers in, or hurled dramatically away. But I knew of no Potter's Field for sale, and plenty of desirable things that were, and after all it was not Leonie who had given me the note, so I folded it up carefully and put it inside my prayer-book for safety.