“But what does it mean?” persisted Malcom.

“What do you mean?” springing up with a quick look into his eyes.  “You—­foolish—­boy!” as an inkling of Malcom’s meaning crept into her mind.

“What does it mean, Betty Burnett, that my uncle has had nothing better to do when he has so zealously labored up here, than to paint your sister’s face in every conceivable way?” slowly and impressively asked Malcom, as he put still another tell-tale sketch over that on the easel.

“You do not really mean!—­it can’t be!—­Oh!” uttered Bettina in diverse tones and inflections as she rapidly recalled, one after another, certain incidents.

Then there was silence in Robert Sumner’s studio between these two discoverers of his long-cherished secret.

“Malcom,” at length whispered Bettina, “we must never breathe one word about what we have found here.  You must not tell Margery or your mother.  Promise me that it shall be a solemn secret between you and me.”

“I promise, Lady Betty.  Your behest shall be sacredly regarded,” replied Malcom with mock gravity.  “But,” after a little, “shall you tell Barbara?”

“Tell Barbara?  No! no!  How could I tell her!  Malcom, don’t you know that it is only by a chance that we have found these pictures?  That, whatever they may mean is absolutely sacred to your uncle?  Perhaps they mean nothing—­nothing save that he, from an artist’s stand-point, admires my sister’s face.  Indeed, the more I think of it, the more I am inclined to believe that is all,” she persisted, as she saw Malcom’s expressive shrug and the comical look in his eyes as he moved them slowly along the half-dozen sketches that were now standing in a row.

“And I shall think no more about it,” she added, “and advise you to do the same.”

Bettina, who was usually so gentle, could be prettily imperious when she chose.  And now, wrought up by Malcom’s reference to Barbara and her own fast crowding thoughts, her voice took on this tone, and she turned with high head to leave the studio.

“Betty!  Betty!” pleaded Malcom, running after her.  “Why, Betty!” and the surprised, pained tone of his voice instantly stopped her on the staircase.

“I do not mean anything disagreeable, Malcom,” she conceded, “only I could not bear to have anything said about Barbara or to Barbara, that might in any way disturb her.  That is all,—­forgive me, Malcom.”  And the two friends clasped hands.

Malcom went back into the studio, his pursed lips emitting a low, meditative whistle, while Bettina hurried downstairs, her mind beset with conjectures.

It was not Mr. Sumner of whom she was thinking, but her sister.  A veil seemed to withdraw before her consciousness, and to reveal the possible meaning of much that had perplexed her during the past months.  For if Mr. Sumner had really been learning to love Barbara, might it not also be that Barbara cared more for him than Bettina had been wont to think?