There were tears in Maraquita’s voice as she spoke, which brought the kindred drops welling up to Lizzie’s eyes, and for a few moments the girls wept together as for a common loss. ‘Oh, Quita,’ said Liz, as soon as she could speak calmly again, ‘I know that you and your father and mother have felt for me in my trouble, for, kind as you have been to us, you can never realise the depth of it. My father was my world. He stood between me and every anxiety, and now that he is gone, I feel as if I stood alone, the centre of a storm of suspicion, and accusation, and reproach.’ Maraquita paled under this allusion, but she felt obliged to say,-- ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Can you ask me, Quita?’ exclaimed Liz suddenly. ‘Is it possible that the rumours that are afloat concerning me have failed to reach your ears? Mr Courtney told me that he had heard them. Surely he repeated them to you.’ ‘No, papa has told me nothing, and I don’t know what rumours you allude to,’ replied Quita; but had the room not been darkened to shut out the morning heat, Lizzie must have seen the crimson blood that rushed to her face with fear of what was coming. ‘Then I must tell you,’ said Lizzie, drawing nearer to the couch, while she looked cautiously about the room to be sure that no one was within hearing. ‘Indeed I came up here this morning expressly to tell you, for the burden of secrecy and shame is more than I can bear.’ Whilst Lizzie beat about the bush, as though afraid to mention the forbidden topic, Quita had felt timid and constrained, but now that she seemed prepared to speak out, the defiance that is born of fear entered the younger girl’s breast, and emboldened her to say or do anything in the defence of her honour. ‘What secrecy? What shame? What have you been doing, Lizzie?’ she exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise. ‘You talk in riddles to me to-day.’ ‘Ah, you have heard nothing, Quita. I can see that. You do not know the terrible duty that has been laid upon me. But turn your face this way, dear, and let me whisper to you. Don’t mind what I may say, Quita. Remember that I am your sister, who has known you from a baby, and that I sympathise with and feel for you in any trouble or sorrow you may have to endure. You remember the night you came to our bungalow?’ ‘I remember the night I was _told_ I went there, Liz; but I was half delirious with the fever, and can vouch for nothing myself.’ ‘I can well understand that you were half crazy with fear and pain, dearest, but it was not the fever that made you so.’ ‘The Doctor said it was the fever,’ argued Maraquita, with wide-open, innocent eyes. ‘He told papa and mamma so.’ ‘I know he did, for _your_ sake, and that they believed it. He extracted a solemn oath from me at the same time, never to reveal what I might see or hear that night. And I never _have_ revealed it, Quita, and I never _will_. It shall lie hidden in my heart until my death. Only _you_ must help me to bear it, or I shall die.’