After a time, her voice came back, thin and vague, a ghostly voice,
speaking the thoughts of a mind that had lost its vigour.

"Alfred was in love with Edith. They all were. She was so pretty and so
gay. But she was not unfaithful. No. I knew that. She told me and she
trusted me, but I said nothing. That's what has worried me--all the
time." Heavily she sighed again, and Helen drew herself to a sitting
posture in her bed. She dared not ask the questions which tramped over
each other in her mind; she hardly drew a breath lest the sound should
change the current of the other's thought.

"She did silly things. They vexed me. I was jealous, I suppose. Take
care of Miriam. Oh--but she's gone. Edith--she made men love her, and
she couldn't help it, and then one night--but it's too long to tell.
Philip thought she wasn't faithful, but I knew. She wouldn't tell him.
She was angry, she wouldn't say a word, but she trusted me to tell him.
And you see, I--didn't. He wouldn't go and see her. If he had seen her
he would have found out. And soon she died--of measles." The woman in
the bed laughed softly.

"That was so foolish! And then I married him. I got w-what I wanted. But
there's a verse about leanness in the soul, isn't there? That's what I
had. He wanted some one to look after the children, and I looked after
you--no more. The struggling hasn't been worth while."

"No." The word came from Helen like a lost puff of wind.

"And then Philip went away, and I came here. That's all. I wanted to
tell somebody. Now perhaps I can have peace. I meant to tell him, too,
but I was too late. That worried me. All these years--"

Leaning on her elbow, Helen looked at the narrow bed. It had some aspect
of a coffin, and the strangely indifferent voice was still. She felt an
intolerable pity for the woman, and the pain overcame her bewilderment
and surprise, yet she knew she need not suffer, for Mildred Caniper had
slipped her burden of confession and lay at rest.

Beyond the relief of tears, Helen slid into her place. The dead, distant
mother was not real to her: she was like the gay shadow of a butterfly
that must soon die, and Philip Caniper was no more than a name. Their
fate could hardly stir her, and their personal tragedy was done; but now
she thought she could interpret the thoughts which clustered in the
dining-room. This was Mildred Caniper's secret, and it had been told
without shame. The irony of that made her laugh silently