it,--at least _I_ felt that way,
and so I wrote you the letter. I didn't even tell Joyce I'd done it,
because--because I was afraid she'd think I was _meddling_ in what
didn't concern me! But I couldn't help it. I couldn't sleep nights till
I'd sent that letter, because it all haunted me so! I just sent it to
Chesterton, South Carolina, because that was all the address I knew. I
didn't even feel sure it would ever reach you.

"And I set a special date for you to get here on purpose, because--well,
because I thought we ought to be here to receive you, and have the place
look sort of--homelike. It would be terrible, seems to me, to come back
to a dark, deserted house that you'd left so long ago, and nobody here
to--to welcome you. Well, that's all, I guess. But Mrs. Collingwood, I'm
so afraid we haven't done right,--that we meddled in what was no
business of ours, and trespassed in a house we should never have
entered! I only hope you can forgive us!" Thus ended Cynthia, brokenly,
and Mrs. Collingwood put out her hands to take a hand of each girl in
her clasp.

"You dear little meddlers!" she exclaimed. "This is all so astonishing
to me; but I feel sure, nevertheless, that you have done nothing but
good! And now will you--will you show me what you spoke of?"

Cynthia rose, handed her a lighted candle, and led her to the opening of
the little stairway in the library. "It's up these stairs, in the room
above--on the desk," she said. "You will find it all lit up there. And
I think that--you would rather go--alone!" Mrs. Collingwood took the
candle, and Cynthia helped her into the opening at the foot of the
stairs. Then she went back to Joyce.

When they were alone, the two girls stood staring at one another and
Cynthia's cheeks grew fiery red.

"I don't know what--what you must think of me, Joyce!" she stammered. "I
ought never to have done this, I suppose, without telling you."

"Why didn't you tell me?" demanded Joyce.

"Why, I was so afraid you'd think me silly and--and meddling, and you
mightn't approve of it. I was unhappy,--I--somehow felt as though I'd
committed a crime, and the only way to right it was this!"

"How long ago did you send your letter?" asked Joyce, presently.

Cynthia considered. "I think I posted it a week ago Thursday."

"And you knew all the time, last night, that this was going to happen
to-day?" asked Joyce incredulously.

"Well, I sort of expected it,--that is, I really didn't know w