elf all the indulgences of taste of which his youth has been
deprived. The girl, dressed simply in some light stuff, and scarcely
_decolletee_, seemed somewhat lost in the spaciousness of her
surroundings. She made no pretense at preliminary social small talk,
going straight to her point. She did this by a repetition of the words
with which she had opened the similar conversation at Mountain Brook.
"I've something to tell you." Having said this while they were shaking
hands, she went on as soon as they were seated in the firelight:

"At least Uncle Emery had something to tell you, and I asked him to let
me do it."

"Why?" He put the question rather blankly.

"Because I thought I could do it better." But she caught herself up at
once. "No; not better. Of course, I can't do that. Only--only I _wanted_
him to let me do it."

Chip's heart bounded. Edith was in New York. She had heard of his
condition. She was coming back to him. He was to have his reward for
taking pity on Maggie Clare. His tongue and lips were parched as he
forced out the words:

"Then it's good news--or you wouldn't want to break it?"

She was not visibly perturbed. Rather, she was pensive, sitting with an
elbow resting on the arm of her chair, the hand raised so as to lay a
forefinger on her cheek. "Don't you think that we often make news good
or bad by our way of taking it?"

"That's asking me a question, when you've got information to give me.
What have you to tell me, Miss Bland?"

"I've something to tell you that will give you a great shock; so that I
don't want to say it till I know you're prepared."

"Oh, prepared! Is one ever prepared? For God's sake, Miss Bland, what is
it? Is one of the children hurt? Is one of them dead?"

"That would be a great grief. I said that this would be a great shock.
There's a difference--and one _can_ be prepared."

"Well, I am. Please don't keep me in suspense. Do tell me."

She sat now with hands folded in her lap, looking at him quietly. "No,
you're not prepared."

"Tell me what to do and I'll do it," he said, nervously, "only don't
torture me."

"One is prepared," she said, tranquilly, "by remembering beforehand
one's own strength--by knowing that there's nothing one can't bear, and
bear nobly."

"All right; all right; I'll do that. Now please go on."

"But _will_ you?"

"Will I what?"

"Will you try to say to yourself: I'm a man, and I'm equal to this. It
can't knock me down; it can't even