“Where is Mrs. Baggs?” I asked first.

Mrs. Baggs was the housekeeper.

Alicia pointed to the closed folding-doors.  “In the front parlor; asleep on the sofa.”

“Have you any suspicion who the stranger was who called more than an hour ago?”

“None.  The servant told him we saw no visitors, and he went away, without leaving his name.”

“Have you heard from your father?”

She began to turn pale again, but controlled herself bravely, and answered in a whisper: 

“Mrs. Baggs had a short note from him this morning.  It was not dated; and it only said circumstances had happened which obliged him to leave home suddenly, and that we were to wait here till be wrote again, most likely in a few days.”

“Now, Alicia,” I said, as lightly as I could, “I have the highest possible opinion of your courage, good-sense, and self-control; and I shall expect you to keep up your reputation in my eyes, while you are listening to what I have to tell you.”

Saying these words, I took her by the hand and made her sit close by me; then, breaking it to her as gently and gradually as possible, I told her all that had happened at the red-brick house since the evening when she left the dinner-table, and we exchanged our parting look at the dining-room door.

It was almost as great a trial to me to speak as it was to her to hear.  She suffered so violently, felt such evident misery of shame and terror, while I was relating the strange events which had occurred in her absence, that I once or twice stopped in alarm, and almost repented my boldness in telling her the truth.  However, fair-dealing with her, cruel as it might seem at the time, was the best and safest course for the future.  How could I expect her to put all her trust in me if I began by deceiving her—­if I fell into prevarications and excuses at the very outset of our renewal of intercourse?  I went on desperately to the end, taking a hopeful view of the most hopeless circumstances, and making my narrative as mercifully short as possible.

When I had done, the poor girl, in the extremity of her forlornness and distress, forgot all the little maidenly conventionalities and young-lady-like restraints of everyday life—­and, in a burst of natural grief and honest confiding helplessness, hid her face on my bosom, and cried there as if she were a child again, and I was the mother to whom she had been used to look for comfort.

I made no attempt to stop her tears—­they were the safest and best vent for the violent agitation under which she was suffering.  I said nothing; words, at such a ti me as that, would only have aggravated her distress.  All the questions I had to ask; all the proposals I had to make, must, I felt, be put off—­no matter at what risk—­until some later and calmer hour.  There we sat together, with one long unsnuffed candle lighting us smokily; with the discordantly-grotesque sound of the housekeeper’s snoring in the front room, mingling with the sobs of the weeping girl on my bosom.  No other noise, great or small, inside the house or out of it, was audible.  The summer night looked black and cloudy through the little back window.