Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of hope in her eyes. She clasped Alice's hand. Neither spoke. The little brown bird pursued his way up and down the branches of the beech; beyond it lay the sky, and the girls, tense with little sufferings, yearned into this vision of beautiful peace. At last Alice said: 'Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble? Does he know--' 'He was away, and I didn't like to write it to him; his departure for Australia took me quite by surprise.' 'Have you told your mother?' 'Oh no, I'd rather die than tell her; I couldn't tell her. You know what she is.' 'I think she ought to be told; she would take you abroad.' 'Oh no, Alice dear; it would never do to tell mamma. You know what she is, you know how she talks, she would never leave off abusing the Scullys; and then, I don't know how, but somehow everybody would get to know about it. But find it out they will, sooner or later; it is only a question of time.' 'No, no, May, they shall know nothing of this--at least, not if I can help it.' 'But you can't help it.' 'There is one thing quite certain; you must go away. You cannot stop in Galway.' 'It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to? A girl cannot move a yard away from home without people wanting to know where she has gone.' Alice's eyes filled with tears. 'You might go up to Dublin,' she said, 'and live in lodgings.' 'And what excuse should I give to mother?' said May, who in her despair had not courage to deny the possibility of the plan. 'You needn't tell her where you are,' replied Alice; and then she hesitated, feeling keenly conscious of the deception she was practising. But her unswerving common sense coming, after a moment's reflection, to her aid, she said: 'You might say that you were going to live in the convent. Go to the Mother Superior, tell her of your need, beg of her, persuade her to receive and forward your letters; and in that way, it seems to me that no one need be the wiser of what is going to happen.' The last words were spoken slowly, as if with a sense of shame at being forced to speak thus. May raised her face, now aflame with hope and joy. 'I wonder if it is possible to--' A moment after the light died out of her face, and she said: 'But how shall I live? Who will support me? I cannot ask mother for money without awakening suspicion.' 'I think, May, I shall be able to give you almost all the money you want,' replied Alice in a hesitating and slightly embarrassed manner. 'You, Alice?' 'But I haven't told you; I have been writing a good deal lately for newspapers, and have made nearly twenty pounds. That will be all you will want for the present, and I shall be able, I hope, to make sufficient to keep you supplied.' 'I don't think that anyone was ever as good as you, Alice. You make me feel ashamed of myself.'