"You're a good little thing, after all," she said. "Yes--now I'll tell you. You were quite right. It was a lie--but half of it was true--the half I told you--but I wanted you to believe the other half too. I did walk in my sleep, and I must have opened that cabinet and taken Edgar's story out, because I found myself standing there with it in my hands. And he was dead, and---- Oh, Milly. I knew he was dead, of course, and yet he was there--I give you my word he was there, and I heard him say 'Take it, take it, take it!' quite plainly, like I'm speaking to you now. And I took it; and I copied it out--it took me nearly all night--and then I sent it to you. And I'd never have told you the truth as long as you didn't believe me--never--never. But now you do believe me I won't lie to you. There! Let me go. I think I was mad then, and I know I am now. Tell every one. I don't care." But Milly threw her arms round her again. The love interest had overpowered the moral sense. What did the silly story, or the theft, or the lie matter--what were they, compared with the love-secret she had surprised? "My darling Jane," she said, holding her friend closely and still weeping lavishly, "don't worry about the story: I quite understand. Let's forget it. You've got quite enough trouble to bear without that. But there's one thing, it's just as well I found out before the story was published. Because Edgar isn't dead. His ship has been towed in: he's at home." Jane laughed. "Don't cry, dear," said Milly; "I'll help you to bear it. Only--oh dear, how awful it is for you!--he's going to be married." Jane laughed again; and then she thinks the great, green waves really did rise up all round the quaint dining-room--rise mountains high, and, falling, cover her. * * * * * Jane was ill so long that Milly had to tell Edgar about the story after all, and they sent it in, and it was published in Jane's name. So the little brothers were all right. And he wrote the next story for her too, and they corrected the proofs together. Jane has always thought it a pity that Milly had not troubled to ask the name of the girl whom Edgar intended to marry, because the name proved, on enquiry, to be Jane. V THE MILLIONAIRESS I It is a dismal thing to be in London in August. The streets are up for one thing, and your cab can never steer a straight course for the place you want to go to. And the trees are brown in the parks, and every one you know is away, so that there would be nowhere to go in your cab, even if you had the money to pay for it, and you could go there without extravagance.