“The orphan has been quite as well off as if it had been all hers,” said Janet.  “Mother, just listen!  Give me the keeping of my father’s secret, and-—even if we lose this place-—it shall make up for all-—”

“You do not know what you are talking of, Janet,” said Caroline, pushing back those ripples of white hair that crowned her brow, “nor indeed I either!  I only know you have spoken more kindly to me, and that you are under my own roof again.  Kiss me, my child, and forgive me if I have pained you.  You did not know what you did about the will, and as to this book, I know you meant to put it back again.”

“I did-—I did, mother-—if Barbara had not hidden the desk,” cried Janet.  And as her mother kissed her, she laid her head on her shoulder, and wept and sobbed in an hysterical manner, such as Caroline had never seen in her before.  Of course she was tired out by the long journey, and the subsequent agitation; and Caroline soothed and caressed her, with the sole effect of making her cry more piteously; but she would not hear of her mother staying to undress and put her to bed, gathered herself up again as soon as she could, and when another kiss had been exchanged at her bedroom door, Caroline heard it locked after her.

Very little did Caroline sleep that night.  If she lost consciousness at all, it was only to know that something strange and wonderful was hanging over her.  Sometimes she had a sense that her trust and mission as a rich woman had been ill-fulfilled, and therefore the opportunity was to be taken away; but more often there was a strange sense of relief from what she was unfit for.  She remembered that strange dream of her children turning into statues of gold, and the Magnum Bonum disenchanting them, and a fancy came over her that this might yet be realised, a fancy to whose lulling effect she was indebted for the sleep she enjoyed in the morning, which made her unusually late, but prevented her from looking as haggard as Janet did, with eyelids swollen, as if she had cried a good deal longer last night.

The postbag was lying on the table, and directly after family prayers (which she had for some years begun when at home), Mrs. Brownlow beguiled her nervousness by opening it, and distributing the letters.

The first she opened was such a startling one, that her head seemed to reel, and she doubted whether the shock of last night was confusing her senses.

“MY DEAR MRS. BROWNLOW,—-What will you think of us now that the full truth has burst on you?  Of me especially, to whom you entrusted your dear daughter.  I never could have thought that Nita would have lent herself to the transaction, and alas!  I let the two girls take care of themselves more than was right.  However, I can at least give you the comfort of knowing that it was a perfectly legal marriage, for Nita was one of the witnesses, and looked to all that—-”

Here Caroline could read no more.  Sick and stunned, she began to dispense her teacups, and even helped herself to some of the food that was handed round, but her hand trembled so, and she looked so white and bewildered, that Allen exclaimed—-