Miss Jethro advanced, not noticing Emily’s expression of surprise. “I am not very strong at the best of times,” she continued, “may I sit down on your bed?” Remarkable on other occasions for her cold composure, her voice trembled as she made that request--a strange request surely, when there were chairs at her disposal. Emily made room for her with the dazed look of a girl in a dream. “I beg your pardon, Miss Jethro, one of the things I can’t endure is being puzzled. If you don’t mean to report us, why did you come in and catch me with the light?” Miss Jethro’s explanation was far from relieving the perplexity which her conduct had caused. “I have been mean enough,” she answered, “to listen at the door, and I heard you talking of your father. I want to hear more about him. That is why I came in.” “You knew my father!” Emily exclaimed. “I believe I knew him. But his name is so common--there are so many thousands of ‘James Browns’ in England--that I am in fear of making a mistake. I heard you say that he died nearly four years since. Can you mention any particulars which might help to enlighten me? If you think I am taking a liberty--” Emily stopped her. “I would help you if I could,” she said. “But I was in poor health at the time; and I was staying with friends far away in Scotland, to try change of air. The news of my father’s death brought on a relapse. Weeks passed before I was strong enough to travel--weeks and weeks before I saw his grave! I can only tell you what I know from my aunt. He died of heart-complaint.” Miss Jethro started. Emily looked at her for the first time, with eyes that betrayed a feeling of distrust. “What have I said to startle you?” she asked. “Nothing! I am nervous in stormy weather--don’t notice me.” She went on abruptly with her inquiries. “Will you tell me the date of your father’s death?” “The date was the thirtieth of September, nearly four years since.” She waited, after that reply. Miss Jethro was silent. “And this,” Emily continued, “is the thirtieth of June, eighteen hundred and eighty-one. You can now judge for yourself. Did you know my father?” Miss Jethro answered mechanically, using the same words. “I did know your father.” Emily’s feeling of distrust was not set at rest. “I never heard him speak of you,” she said. In her younger days the teacher must have been a handsome woman. Her grandly-formed features still suggested the idea of imperial beauty--perhaps Jewish in its origin. When Emily said, “I never heard him speak of you,” the color flew into her pallid cheeks: her dim eyes became alive again with a momentary light. She left her seat on the bed, and, turning away, mastered the emotion that shook her.