apers were sealed, and locked
up. In the morning the lock was found broken, and the papers and the boy
were both missing together."

"Do you think he showed the confession to any other person?" Stella
asked. "I happen to know that he concealed it from his mother."

"After the housekeeper's reproof," I replied, "he would be cunning
enough, in my opinion, not to run the risk of showing it to strangers.
It is far more likely that he thought he might learn English enough to
read it himself."

There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She was thinking,
and I was looking at her. On a sudden, she raised her head. Her eyes
rested on me gravely.

"It is very strange!" she said

"What is strange?"

"I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged me to doubt you.
They advised me to be silent about what happened at Brussels. And they
too are concerned in my husband's desertion of me. He first met Father
Benwell at their house." Her head drooped again; her next words were
murmured to herself. "I am still a young woman," she said. "Oh, God,
what is my future to be?"

This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that she had
dear and devoted friends.

"Not one," she answered, "but you."

"Have you not seen Lady Loring?" I asked.

"She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me to make their
house my home. I have no right to blame them--they meant well. But after
what has happened, I can't go back to them."

"I am sorry to hear it," I said.

"Are you thinking of the Lorings?" she asked.

"I don't even know the Lorings. I can think of nobody but you."

I was still looking at her--and I am afraid my eyes said more than my
words. If she had doubted it before, she must have now known that I was
as fond of her as ever. She looked distressed rather than confused. I
made an awkward attempt to set myself right.

"Surely your brother may speak plainly," I pleaded.

She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to go--with a friendly
word, intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my pardon for that
time. "Will you come and see us to-morrow?" she said. "Can you forgive
my mother as generously as you have forgiven me? I will take care,
Bernard, that she does you justice at last."

She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply? If I had been a
resolute man, I might have remembered that it would be best for me not
to see too much of her. But I am a poor weak creature--I