Muriel’s tone was gentle; but her attitude was resolution itself.  Fanny Merton stared at the frail slim creature in her deep widow’s black; her color rose.

“Oh, very well.  Do as you like!—­I’m agreeable!  Only I thought perhaps—­as you and Diana seem to be such tremendous friends—­you’d like to talk it over with me first.  I don’t know how much Diana knows; and I thought perhaps you’d give me a hint.  Of course, she’ll know all there was in the papers.  But my mother claims a deal more than the trust money—­jewels, and that kind of thing.  And Uncle Mallory treated us shamefully about them—­shamefully!  That’s why I’m come over.  I made mother let me!  Oh, she’s so soft, is mother, she’d let anybody off.  But I said, ’Diana’s rich, and she ought to make it up to us!  If nobody else’ll ask her, I will!’”

The girl had grown pale, but it was a pallor of determination and of passion.  Mrs. Colwood had listened to the torrent of words, held against her will, first by astonishment, then by something else.  If it should be her duty to listen?—­for the sake of this young life, which in these few weeks had so won upon her heart?

She retraced a few steps.

“Miss Merton, I do not understand what you have been saying.  If you have any claim upon Miss Mallory, you know well that she is the soul of honor and generosity.  Her one desire is to give everybody more than their due.  She is too generous—­I often have to protect her.  But, as I have said before, it is not for me to discuss any claim you may have upon her.”

Fanny Merton was silent for a minute—­staring at her companion.  Then she said, abruptly: 

“Does she ever talk to you about Aunt Sparling?”

“Her mother?”

The girl nodded.

Mrs. Colwood hesitated—­then said, unwillingly:  “No.  She has mentioned her once or twice.  One can see how she missed her as a child—­how she misses her still.”

“Well, I don’t know what call she has to miss her!” cried Fanny Merton, in a note of angry scorn.  “A precious good thing she died when she did—­for everybody.”

Mrs. Colwood felt her hands trembling.  In the growing darkness of the winter afternoon it seemed to her startled imagination as though this black-eyed black-browed girl, with her scowling passionate face, were entering into possession of the house and of Diana—­an evil and invading power.  She tried to choose her words carefully.

“Miss Mallory has never talked to me of her parents.  And, if you will excuse me, Miss Merton—­if there is anything sad—­or tragic—­in their history, I would rather hear it from Miss Mallory than from you!”

“Anything sad?—­anything sad?  Well, upon my word!—­”

The girl breathed fast.  So, involuntarily, did Mrs. Colwood.

“You don’t mean to say”—­the speaker threw her body forward, and brought her face close to Mrs. Colwood—­“you are not going to tell me that you don’t know about Diana’s mother?”