“What trouble was that of hers, dear mother, can you tell me?” inquired Em. “No, I can’t tell you. I think _she_ will some day, as she has taken such a wonderful fancy to you. You say she wants you, Em.?” “Yes, mother, dear, she wants me to live with her as companion, I suppose. She must be very lonely, you know.” “Would you like to go, Em.?” “Oh, dear mother, yes, indeed, if you and father are willing to part with me.” “It would hardly be like parting with you to lend you to her, so near us, too! And it would help you to forget that young man, whom you _must_ forget, Em. Well, child, if she wants you and you want to go to her _you shall go_; so that is settled. Your father would never dream of making any objection when anything as much for your good as that is in _every_ respect turns up.” “I was sure you would like me to go, mother.” “Why, of course. Now I tell you what we will do. To-morrow morning, if no change for the worse takes place in poor Ann Whitlock, we will borrow old ’Sias’s boat, and me and your father, just us three and no more, will start for Edengarden. And when we get safe in the middle of the river, out of hearing of every one but the water-fowl, we will tell father all about it! And, oh, won’t he be astonished? But we won’t drop a word of it to him, or any one else, until _then_. As to old Monica, although we have the lady’s leave to do it, we will not say anything to her yet awhile either. It would only distract her mind from the sick woman, who needs all her attention. What do you think, Em.?” “Dear mother, I think you are quite right. Oh, let us be very cautious; for though I cannot imagine why that lovely Lady of Edengarden should wish to keep her identity as Emolyn Wyndeworth concealed beyond that it is from the memory of some great sorrow suffered in her youth—still, I know she made such a strong point of our keeping her secret when she gave me her confidence that I would not for all this world could offer me even seem to betray the trust!” “Don’t be afraid o’ me, Em.! I can be as secret as the grave,” said Susan Palmer. The clock in the hall clanged out twelve. “I declare, it is midnight! Good-night, Em.! I must go to bed, though I don’t believe I shall sleep a wink this night with thinking of Emolyn Wyndeworth!” said the good woman as she lighted her candle and left the room. Em. did not go to bed, however. She drew the brands together to make them safe, laid a log upon them to keep the fire, and then blew out her candle and tripped downstairs to Ann Whitlock’s room, which she entered. She found the sick woman either sleeping or unconscious, and old Monica sitting in the arm-chair before the fire, wakeful and watchful. “I have come to tell you that you must lie down and sleep. I will take your place until daylight,” said Em., leaning over the chair.