nty before I left. I
dislike not finishing a book. Besides, this one fascinated me--the smug
complacence and almost loud virtue of the author, his satisfaction in
Bolivar County, and his small hits at the world outside, his patronage
to those not of it. And always, when I began to read, I turned to the
inscription in Miss Emily's hand, the hand of the confession--and I
wondered if she had really believed it all.

So on this day I found the name Bullard in the book. It had belonged
to the Reverend Samuel Thaddeus's grandmother, and he distinctly stated
that she was the last of her line. He inferred, indeed, that since
the line was to end, it had chosen a fitting finish in his immediate
progenitor.

That night, at dinner, I said, "Anne, are there any Bullards in this
neighborhood now?"

"I have never heard of any. But I have not been here long."

"It is not a common name," I persisted.

But she received my statement in silence. She had, as I have said,
rather a gift for silence.

That afternoon I was wandering about the garden snipping faded roses
with Miss Emily's garden shears, when I saw Maggie coming swiftly
toward me. When she caught my eye, she beckoned to me. "Walk quiet,
Miss Agnes," she said, "and don't say I didn't warn you. She's in the
library."

So, feeling hatefully like a spy, I went quietly over the lawn toward
the library windows. They were long ones, to the floor, and at first I
made out nothing. Then I saw Anne. She was on her knees, following the
border of the carpet with fingers that examined it, inch by inch.

She turned, as if she felt our eyes on her, and saw us. I shall never
forget her face. She looked stricken. I turned away. There was something
in her eyes that made me think of Miss Emily, lying among her pillows
and waiting for me to say the thing she was dreading to hear.

I sent Maggie away with a gesture. There was something in her pursed
lips that threatened danger. For I felt then as if I had always known
it and only just realized I knew it, that somewhere in that room lay the
answer to all questions; lay Miss Emily's secret. And I did not wish to
learn it. It was better to go on wondering, to question and doubt and
decide and decide again. I was, I think, in a state of nervous terror by
that time, terror and apprehension.

While Miss Emily lived, I had hoped to help. But now it seemed too
hatefully like accusing when she could not defend herself. And there is
another element