Miriam turned away without a word.  Her face was inscrutable.

“Don’t wake him,” called Barbara, in a shrill whisper.  “If he is not asleep, wait until he is.  I would not have him wakened, but I must have the coat to-night.”

From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing.  Miriam turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in.  When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily.  It had not taken long.  Even Barbara might well be surprised at her quickness.

Perhaps the letter was not in his coat—­it might be somewhere else.  At any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara.  Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle.

[Sidenote:  The Letter Recovered]

Yes, the letter was there—­two sheets:  one in ink, in Constance’s hand, the other, in pencil, written by Barbara.  Why should Barbara write to one who was blind?

With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both letters, then put them back.  Her lips were curled in a sneer when she took the coat into Barbara’s room and gave it to her without speaking.

The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a sob of relief, took out her mother’s letter and her own version of it.

“Thank you, Aunty,” breathed Barbara.  “I am sorry—­to—­to—­disturb you, but there was no—­other way.”

[Sidenote:  The Letter Destroyed]

Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and leaving Barbara’s door ajar.  When she was certain that she was alone, Barbara tore the letter into shreds.  So much, at least, was sure.  Her father should never see them, whatever he might think of her.

Miriam was standing outside the blind man’s door.  She fancied she heard him stir.  It did not matter—­there was plenty of time before morning to return the coat.  She took it back into her own room and sat down to think.

Her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown.  The candlelight, however, was kind.  It touched gently upon the grey in her hair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in her face.  It lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervously in her lap.

After twenty-one years, this was what Constance had to say to Barbara—­that she loved another man, that Ambrose North was not to know it, and that she did not quite trust Miriam.  Also that Miriam had loved Ambrose North and had never quite forgiven Constance for taking him away from her.

Out of the shadow of the grave, Miriam’s secret stared her in the face.  She had not dreamed, until she read the letter, that Constance knew.  Barbara knew now, too.  Miriam was glad that Barbara had the letter, for she knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it.

[Sidenote:  A Crumbling Structure]