oom as soon as the lawyer had left
the house? Her hand trembled on the banister; 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 toward 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 gray 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