the revelation of the secret which had
overwhelmed her that morning; the disclosure, more
terrible still, which she now stood committed to
make to the orphan sisters. For the first time,
she saw the whole sequence of events—saw it
as plainly as the cloudless blue of the sky, and
the green glow of the trees in the sunlight
outside.

How—when could she tell them? Who
could approach them with the disclosure of their
own illegitimacy, before their father and mother
had been dead a week? Who could speak the
dreadful words, while the first tears were wet on
their cheeks, while the first pang of separation
was at its keenest in their hearts, while
the memory of the funeral was not a day old
yet? Not their last friend left; not the faithful
woman whose heart bled for them. No! silence
for the present time, at all risks—merciful silence,
for many days to come!

She left the room, with the will and the letter
in her hand—with the natural, human pity at
her heart, which sealed her lips and shut her
eyes resolutely to the future. In the hall, she
stopped and listened. Not a sound was audible.
She softly ascended the stairs, on her way to her
own room, and passed the door of Norah's
bedchamber. Voices inside, the voices of the two
sisters, caught her ear. After a moment's
consideration, she checked herself, turned back, and
quickly descended the stairs again. Both Norah
and Magdalen knew of the interview between
Mr. Pendril and herself: she had felt it her duty
to show them his letter, making the appointment.
Could she excite their suspicion by locking
herself up from them in her room, as soon
as the lawyer had left the house? Her hand
trembled on the stair-rail; she felt that her face
might betray her. The self-forgetful fortitude,
which had never failed her until that day, had
been tried once too often—had been tasked
beyond its powers at last.

At the hall-door, she reflected for a moment
again, and went into the garden; directing her
steps to a rustic bench and table placed out of
sight of the house, among the trees. In past
times, she had often sat there, with Mrs. Vanstone
on one side, with Norah on the other, with
Magdalen and the dogs romping on the grass.
Alone, she sat there now—the will and the letter,
which she dared not trust out of her own
possession, laid on the table—her head bowed over
them; her face hidden in her hands. Alone,
she sat there, and tried to rouse her sinking
courage.

Doubts thronged on her of the dark days to
come; dread beset her of the hidden danger
which her own silence towards Norah and
Magdalen might store up in the near future. The
accident of a moment might suddenly reveal
the truth. Mr. Pendril might write, might
personally address himself to the sisters, in the
natural conviction that she had enlightened
them. Complications might gather round them
at a moment's notice; unforeseen necessities
might arise for immediately leaving the house.
She saw all these perils—and still the cruel
courage to face the worst, and speak, was as
far from her as ever. Ere long, the thickening
conflict of her thoughts forced its way outward
for relief in words and actions. She raised her
head, and beat her hand helplessly on the table.

"God help me, what am I to do!" she broke
out. "How am I to tell them?"

"There is no need to tell them," said a voice
behind her. "They know it already."

She started to her feet; and looked round.
It was Magdalen who stood before her
—Magdalen who had spoken those words.

Yes, there was the graceful figure, in its
mourning garments, standing out tall and black
and motionless against the leafy background.
There was Magdalen herself, with a changeless
stillness on her white face; with an icy
resignation in her steady grey eyes.

"We know it already," she repeated, in clear,
measured tones. "Mr. Vanstone's daughters
are Nobody's Children; and the law leaves them
helpless at their uncle's mercy."

So, without a tear on her cheeks, without a
faltering tone in her voice, she repeated the
lawyer's own words, exactly as he had spoken
them. Miss Garth staggered back a step, and
caught at the bench to support herself. Her
head swam; she closed her eyes in a momentary
faintness. When they opened again,
Magdalen's arm was supporting her, Magdalen's
breath fanned her cheek, Magdalen's cold lips
kissed her. She drew back from the kiss; the
touch of the girl's lips thrilled her with terror.

As soon as she could speak, she put the
inevitable question. "You heard us," she said.
"Where?"

"Under the open window."

"All the time?"

"From beginning to end."

She had listened—this girl of eighteen, in the
first week of her orphanage, had listened to the
whole terrible revelation, word by word, as it fell
from the lawyer's lips; and had never once
betrayed herself! From first to last, the only
movements which had escaped her, had been
movements guarded enough and slight enough
to be mistaken for the passage of the summer
breeze through the leaves!

"Don't try to speak yet," she said, in softer and
gentler tones. "Don't look at me with those
doubting eyes. What wrong have I done? When
Mr. Pendril wished to speak to you about Norah
and me, his letter gave us our choice to be
present at the interview, or to keep away. If my
elder sister decided to keep away, how could I
come? How could I hear my own story,
except as I did? My listening has done no
harm. It has done good—it has saved you the
distress of speaking to us. You have suffered
enough for us already: it is time we learnt to
suffer for ourselves. I have learnt. And Norah
is learning."

"Norah!"

"Yes. I have done all I could to spare you.
I have told Norah."

She had told Norah! Was this girl, whose
courage had faced the terrible necessity from