Shortly after Miss Ladd had taken her departure, a parcel arrived for Emily, bearing the name of a bookseller printed on the label. It was large, and it was heavy. “Reading enough, I should think, to last for a lifetime,” Mrs. Ellmother remarked, after carrying the parcel upstairs. Emily called her back as she was leaving the room. “I want to caution you,” she said, “before Miss Wyvil comes. Don’t tell her--don’t tell anybody--how my father met his death. If other persons are taken into our confidence, they will talk of it. We don’t know how near to us the murderer may be. The slightest hint may put him on his guard.” “Oh, miss, are you still thinking of that!” “I think of nothing else.” “Bad for your mind, Miss Emily--and bad for your body, as your looks show. I wish you would take counsel with some discreet person, before you move in this matter by yourself.” Emily sighed wearily. “In my situation, where is the person whom I can trust?” “You can trust the good doctor.” “Can I? Perhaps I was wrong when I told you I wouldn’t see him. He might be of some use to me.” Mrs. Ellmother made the most of this concession, in the fear that Emily might change her mind. “Doctor Allday may call on you tomorrow,” she said. “Do you mean that you have sent for him?” “Don’t be angry! I did it for the best--and Mr. Mirabel agreed with me.” “Mr. Mirabel! What have you told Mr. Mirabel?” “Nothing, except that you are ill. When he heard that, he proposed to go for the doctor. He will be here again to-morrow, to ask for news of your health. Will you see him?” “I don’t know yet--I have other things to think of. Bring Miss Wyvil up here when she comes.” “Am I to get the spare room ready for her?” “No. She is staying with her father at the London house.”