more to shame her, had subsequently informed
her of the circumstance. Sibyl had just remembered this, and with
the recollection there had flashed the thought--out of her own
experience--that people are often much more deeply impressed by words
they overhear than by words directly addressed to them. Sibyl
intended to make it impossible for Bibbs not to overhear. She did not
hesitate--her heart was hot with the old sore, and she believed wholly
in the justice of her cause and in the truth of what she was going to
say. Fate was virtuous at times; it had delivered into her hands the
girl who had affronted her.

Mrs. Sheridan was in her own room. The approach of Sibyl and Roscoe had
driven her from the library, for she had miscalculated her husband's
mood, and she felt that if he used his injured hand as a mark of
emphasis again, in her presence, she would (as she thought of it) "have
a fit right there." She heard Sibyl's step, and pretended to be putting
a touch to her hair before a mirror.

"I was just coming down," she said, as the door opened.

"Yes, he wants you to," said Sibyl. "It's all right, mother Sheridan.
He's forgiven me."

Mrs. Sheridan sniffed instantly; tears appeared. She kissed her
daughter-in-law's cheek; then, in silence, regarded the mirror afresh,
wiped her eyes, and applied powder.

"And I hope Edith will be happy," Sibyl added, inciting more
applications of Mrs. Sheridan's handkerchief and powder.

"Yes, yes," murmured the good woman. "We mustn't make the worst of
things."

"Well, there was something else I had to say, and he wants you to hear
it, too," said Sibyl. "We better go down, mother Sheridan."

She led the way, Mrs. Sheridan following obediently, but when they came
to a spot close by Bibbs's door, Sibyl stopped. "I want to tell you
about it first," she said, abruptly. "It isn't a secret, of course, in
any way; it's something the whole family has to know, and the sooner the
whole family knows it the better. It's something it wouldn't be RIGHT
for us ALL not to understand, and of course father Sheridan most of all.
But I want to just kind of go over it first with you; it'll kind of help
me to see I got it all straight. I haven't got any reason for saying it
except the good of the family, and it's nothing to me, one way or the
other, of course, except for that. I oughtn't to've behaved the way I
did that night, and it seems to me if there's anything I can do to help
the family, I ought