"Don't interrupt me," said Betty. "When Uncle John asked me about the packet I said 'No,' of course; and I mean to say 'No' again, and again, and again, and again, if ever I'm questioned about it. For didn't auntie say it was for us? And what right has he to interfere?" "It does sound awfully interesting!" exclaimed Sylvia. "I do hope you've put it in a very, very safe place, Betty?" Betty laughed softly. "Do you remember the little, old-fashioned pockets auntie always wore inside her dress--little, flat pockets made of very strong calico? Well, it's in one of those; and I mean to secure a safer hiding-place for it when I get to that abominable Court. Now perhaps we'd better go to sleep." "Yes; I am dead-sleepy," responded Sylvia. By and by her gentle breathing showed that she was in the land of slumber. Hetty quickly followed her twin-sister's example. But Betty lay wide awake. She was lying flat on her back, and looking out into the sort of twilight which still seemed to pervade the great moors. Her eyes were wide open, and wore a startled, fixed expression, like the eyes of a girl who was seeing far beyond what she appeared to be looking at. "Yes, I have done right," she said to herself. "There must always be an open door, and this is my open door; and I hope God, and auntie up in heaven, will forgive me for having told that lie. And I hope God, and auntie up in heaven, will forgive me if I tell it again; for I mean to go on telling it, and telling it, and telling it, until I have spent all that money." While Betty lay thinking her wild thoughts, Sir John Crawford, downstairs, made a shrewd and careful examination of the different articles of furniture which had been left in the little stone house by his old friend, Miss Frances Vivian. Everything was in perfect order. She was a lady who abhorred disorder, who could not endure it for a single moment. All her letters and her neatly receipted bills were tied up with blue silk, and laid, according to date, one on top of the other. Her several little trinkets, which eventually would belong to the girls, were in their places. Her last will and testament was also in the drawer where she had told Sir John he would find it. Everything was in order--everything, exactly as the poor lady had left it, with the exception of the little sealed packet. Where was it? Sir John felt puzzled and distressed. He had not an idea what it contained; for Miss Vivian, in her letter to him, had simply asked him to take care of it for her nieces, and had not made any comment with regard to its contents. Sir John certainly could not accuse the girls of purloining it. After some pain and deliberate thought, he decided to go out and speak to the old servants, who were still up, in the kitchen. They received him respectfully, and yet with a sort of sour expression which was natural to their homely Scotch faces. Donald rose silently, and asked the gentleman if he would seat himself.