Again the wild bull’s-eye of the storm flashed through the window, and Miss Fortescue drew instinctively away. But Jeannie’s arm detained her. “Do tell me,” she said again, “unless it would hurt you.” “It would not hurt me,” said Miss Fortescue. Jeannie suddenly stood up. “What do you mean?” she said. “Is it possible that I guess, Aunt Em?” Again the light of youth flooded Miss Fortescue’s face. “Yes, dear, it is possible,” she said. “My father,” said Jeannie, simply. “Yes, your father.” Jeannie sat down on the arm of Miss Fortescue’s chair, and kissed her impulsively. “Oh, Aunt Em, Aunt Em,” she said. “And I never knew. Yet that was natural. I could not have known, could I, until I was able to know, until to-day in fact, and it was like you, so like you, to give us no possibility of guessing. Tell me all, unless it is bitter to you.” “There is no bitterness about love,” said Miss Fortescue, gently. “How it is possible for a woman to love and be bitter, even though her love is not returned, I cannot guess. But once, so I thought, my love was returned. I do not know; I may be wrong. Then he met your mother, and--and they were very happy. And how, unless I was the lowest of God’s creatures, could I wish anything more than that my sister and the man I loved should love each other.” There was a long silence, broken only by the steady hiss of the rain on the grass outside. Jeannie’s head lay on Miss Fortescue’s shoulder, but she did not speak. The occasion lay beyond the realm of words, and could be met only by that great silence which is the language of hearts. The familiar figure of her aunt had been suddenly transformed, her care and protection for the children of her sister had on the moment become to Jeannie a thing more sweet and tender than she had ever dreamed of, the mask playful, severe, grotesque even, which she had known was only a mask, was removed, and how fair-featured a soil lay below. She could not estimate the sweet strength which even then had been so powerless to imbitter, nor what must have been the daily sacrifice in her life. It was not for her either, she felt, to judge her father. Perhaps, as Miss Fortescue had said, he had never loved her, or at any rate had never known she loved him. Jeannie was only ten when her mother died, and since then Aunt Em had always lived with them, a mother--how truly so, she never knew till this moment--to all three of them. But presently Miss Fortescue went on, still without any tremor in her voice.