away--her
disheveled hair, with streaks of gray showing through the dye--presented
a spectacle which would have been grotesque under other circumstances,
but which now reminded Emily of Mr. Rook's last words; warning her not
to believe what his wife said, and even declaring his conviction that
her intellect was deranged. Emily drew back from the bed, conscious
of an overpowering sense of self-reproach. Although it was only for a
moment, she had allowed her faith in Mirabel to be shaken by a woman who
was out of her mind.

"Try to forgive me," she said. "I didn't willfully break my promise; you
frightened me."

Mrs. Rook began to cry. "I was a handsome woman in my time," she
murmured. "You would say I was handsome still, if the clumsy fools about
me had not spoiled my appearance. Oh, I do feel so weak! Where's my
medicine?"

The bottle was on the table. Emily gave her the prescribed dose, and
revived her failing strength.

"I am an extraordinary person," she resumed. "My resolution has always
been the admiration of every one who knew me. But my mind feels--how
shall I express it?--a little vacant. Have mercy on my poor wicked soul!
Help me."

"How can I help you?"

"I want to recollect. Something happened in the summer time, when we
were talking at Netherwoods. I mean when that impudent master at the
school showed his suspicions of me. (Lord! how he frightened me, when he
turned up afterward at Sir Jervis's house.) You must have seen yourself
he suspected me. How did he show it?"

"He showed you my locket," Emily answered.

"Oh, the horrid reminder of the murder!" Mrs. Rook exclaimed. "_I_
didn't mention it: don't blame Me. You poor innocent, I have something
dreadful to tell you."

Emily's horror of the woman forced her to speak. "Don't tell me!" she
cried. "I know more than you suppose; I know what I was ignorant of when
you saw the locket."

Mrs. Rook took offense at the interruption.

"Clever as you are, there's one thing you don't know," she said. "You
asked me, just now, who the pocketbook belonged to. It belonged to your
father. What's the matter? Are you crying?"

Emily was thinking of her father. The pocketbook was the last present
she had given to him--a present on his birthday. "Is it lost?" she asked
sadly.

"No; it's not lost. You will hear more of it directly. Dry your eyes,
and expect something interesting--I'm going to talk about love. Love,
my dear, means myself. Why shouldn't it? I'm