Miranda’s bright eyes looked her through and through, and Marcia’s truthful ones could not evade. Suddenly as she looked into the girl’s homely face, filled with a kind of blind adoration, her heart yearned for counsel in this trying situation. She was reminded of Miranda’s helpfulness the time she ran away to the woods, and the care with which she had guarded the whole matter so that no one ever heard of it. An impulse came to her to confide in Miranda. She was a girl of sharp common sense, and would perhaps be able to help with her advice. At least she could get comfort from merely telling her trouble and anxiety. “Miranda,” she said, “can you keep a secret?” The girl nodded. “Well, I’m going to tell you something, just because I am so troubled and I feel as if it would do me good to tell it.” She smiled and Miranda answered the smile with much satisfaction and no surprise. Miranda had come for this, though she did not expect her way to be so easy. “I’ll be mum as an oyster,” said Miranda. “You jest tell me anything you please. You needn’t be afraid Hannah Heath’ll know a grain about it. She’n’ I are two people. I know when to shut up.” “Well, Miranda, I’m in great perplexity and anxiety. I’ve just had a note from a messenger my husband has sent asking me to come out to that Green Tavern you were talking about. He was sent to me with some message and has had an accident so he couldn’t come. It kind of frightened me to think what might be the matter. I’m glad you are going this way because it keeps me from thinking about it. Are we nearly there? I never went out this road so far before.” “It ain’t fur,” said Miranda as if that were a minor matter. “I’ll go right along in with you, then you needn’t feel lonely. I guess likely it’s business. Don’t you worry.” The tone was reassuring, but Marcia’s face looked troubled. “No, I guess that won’t do, Miranda, for the note says it is a private matter and I must come alone. You know Mr. Spafford has matters to write about that are very important, railroads, and such things, and sometimes he doesn’t care to have any one get hold of his ideas before they appear in the paper. His enemies might use them to stop the plans of the great improvements he is writing about.” “Let me see that note!” demanded Miranda. “Got it with you?” Marcia hesitated. Perhaps she ought not to show it, and yet there was nothing in the note but what she had already told the girl, and she felt sure she would not breathe a word to a living soul after her promise. She handed Miranda the letter, and they stopped a moment while she slowly spelled it out. Miranda was no scholar. Marcia watched her face eagerly, as if to gather a ray of hope from it, but she was puzzled by Miranda’s look. A kind of satisfaction had overspread her homely countenance. “Should you think from that that David was hurt—or ill—or—or—killed—or anything?” She asked the question as if Miranda were a wizard, and hung anxiously upon her answer.