Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl’s room something after midnight, carrying a dim taper.  Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue had overcome her after much restless moving upon the pillow.  Her face was flushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept closing itself with a slight spasm.  The visitor drew apart and looked about the chamber.  Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk, where lay a directed envelope.  She looked at it, and found it was addressed to a French servant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman who loved Cecily, and to whom the girl had promised to write from Italy.  The envelope was closed; but it could contain nothing of importance—­was merely an indication of Cecily’s abiding kindness.  By this lay a small book, from the pages of which protruded a piece of white paper.  Mrs. Lessingham took up the volume—­it was Shelley—­and found that the paper within it was folded about a spray of maidenhair, and bore the inscription “House of Meleager Pompeii.  Monday, December 8, 1878.”  Over this the inquisitive lady mused, until a motion of Cecily caused her to restore things rapidly to their former condition.

A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake.  Mrs. Lessingham again drew softly near to her, and, without letting the light fall directly upon her face, looked at her for a long time.  She whispered feelingly, “Poor girl! poor child!” then, with a sigh almost as deep as that of the slumberer, withdrew.

In the morning, Cecily was already dressed when a servant brought letters to the sitting-room.  There were three, and one of them, addressed to herself, had only the Naples postmark.  She went back to her bedroom with it.

After breakfast Mrs. Lessingham spoke for a while of news contained in her correspondence; then of a sudden asked: 

“You hadn’t any letters?”

“Yes, aunt; one.”

“My child, you are far from well this morning.  The fever hasn’t gone.  Your face burns.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask from whom the letter was?”

“I have it here—­to show you.”  A choking of her voice broke the sentence.  She held out the letter.  Mrs. Lessingham found the following lines:—­

“DEAR CECILY,

“I have, of course, returned to Naples, and I earnestly hope I may see you between ten and eleven to-morrow morning.  I must see you alone.  You cannot reply I will come and send my name in the ordinary way.

“Yours ever,

“R.  ELGAR.”

Mrs. Lessingham looked up.  Cecily, who was standing before her, now met her gaze steadily.

“The meaning of this is plain enough,” said her aunt, with careful repression of feeling.  “But I am at a loss to understand how it has come about.”

“I cannot tell you, aunt.  I cannot tell myself.”

Cecily’s true accents once more.  It was as though she had recovered all her natural self-command now that the revelation was made.  The flush still possessed her cheeks, but she had no look of embarrassment; she spoke in a soft murmur, but distinctly, firmly.