Maria told her.  She left nothing untold.  She told her about her father and mother, her step-mother, and Evelyn, and her marriage, and how she had planned to go to Edgham, get the little sum which her father had deposited in the savings-bank for her, and then vanish.

“How?” asked Miss Blair.

Maria confessed that she did not know.

“Of course your mere disappearance is not going to right things, you know,” said Miss Blair.  “That matrimonial tangle can only be straightened by your death, or the appearance of it.  I do not suppose you meditate the stereotyped hat on the bank, and that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know exactly what to do,” said Maria.

“You are quite right in avoiding a divorce,” said Miss Blair, “especially when your own sister is concerned.  People would never believe the whole truth, but only part of it.  The young man would be ruined, too.  The only way is to have your death-notice appear in the paper.”

“How?”

“Everything is easy, if one has money,” said Miss Blair, “and I have really a good deal.”  She looked thoughtfully at Maria.  “Did you really care for that young man?” she asked.

Maria paled.  “I thought so,” she said.

“Then you did.”

“It does not make any difference if I did,” said Maria, with a little indignation.  She felt as if she were being probed to her heart-strings.

“No, of course it does not,” Miss Blair agreed directly.  “If he and your sister have fallen in love, as you say, you have done obviously the only thing to do.  We will have the notice in the papers.  I don’t know quite how I shall arrange it; but I have a fertile brain.”

Maria looked hesitatingly at her.  “But it will not be telling the truth,” she said.

“But what did you plan to do, if you told the truth when you came away?” asked Miss Blair with a little impatience.

“I did not really plan anything,” replied Maria helplessly.  “I only thought I would go.”

“You are inconsequential,” said Miss Blair.  “You cannot start upon a train of sequences in this world unless you go on to the bitter end.  Besides, after all, why do you object to lying?  I suppose you were brought up to tell the truth, and so was I, and I really think I venerate the truth more than anything else, but sometimes a lie is the highest truth.  See here.  You are willing to bear all the punishment, even fire and brimstone, and so on, if your sister and this man whom you love, are happy, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” replied Maria.

“Well, if you tell a lie which can hurt only yourself, and bless others, and are willing to bear the punishment for it, you are telling the truth like the angels.  Don’t you worry, my dear.  But you must not go to Edgham for that money.  I have enough for us both.”

“I have nearly all my last term’s salary, except the sum I paid for my fare here,” Maria said, proudly.