[Sidenote:  The Still Small Voice]

“Confess,” she repeated to herself scornfully as though in answer to some imperative summons.  “To whom?”

There was no answer, but, in her heart, Miriam knew.  Only one of the blood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made.  And if anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it must come to her through Barbara.

Miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others might hear.  Roger heard—­and wondered—­but said nothing.

After he went home, Barbara still sat by the fire, in that surcease which comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it steps aside, to wait a little, before taking a fresh hold.  She could wonder now about the letter, in her mother’s writing, that she had picked up from the floor, and which her father had found, and very possibly read.  She hesitated to ask Miriam anything concerning either her father or her mother.

[Sidenote:  Miriam’s Confession]

But, while she sat there, Miriam came into the room, urged by goading impulses without number and one insupportable need.  She stood near Barbara for several minutes without speaking; then she began, huskily, “Barbara——­”

The girl turned, wearily.  “Yes?”

“I’ve got something to say and I don’t know but what to-night is as good a time as any.  Neither of us are likely to sleep much.”

Barbara did not answer.

“I hated your mother,” said Miriam, passionately.  “I always hated her.”

“I guessed that,” answered Barbara, with a sigh.

“Your father was in love with me when she came from school, with her doll-face and pretty ways.  She took him away from me.  He never looked at me after he saw her.  I had to stand by and see it, help her with her pretty clothes, and even be maid of honour at the wedding.  It was hard, but I did it.

“She loved him, in a way, but it wasn’t much of a way.  She liked the fine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but, after he went blind, she could hardly tolerate him.  Lots of times, she would have been downright cruel to him if I hadn’t made her do differently.

“The first time they came here for the Summer, she met Laurence Austin, Roger’s father, and it was love at first sight on both sides.  They used to see each other every day either here or out somewhere.  After you were born, the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him.  I know, for I followed.

“When your father asked where she was, I lied to him, not only then, but many times.  I wasn’t screening her—­I was shielding him.  It went on for over a year, then she took the laudanum.  She left four notes—­one to me, one to your father, one to you, and one to Laurence Austin.  I never delivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for five years.  After he died, she still haunted me, but it was less often, and different.