_Miss T._ Nothing wrong? Oh, thoughtless, frivolous, light-hearted creature! Oh, reckless old butterfly! Nothing wrong! You’ve eyes in your head, a nose on your face, ears on each side of it, a brain of some sort in your skull, haven’t you, butler? _Sym._ Undoubtedly, but I beg to observe I’m not the---- _Miss T._ Have you or have you not the gift of simple apprehension? Can you or can you not draw conclusions? Go to, go to, you offend me. _Sym._ (_aside_). There _is_ something wrong, and it’s _here_ (_touching his forehead_). I’ll tell her you’re here. Whom shall I say? _Miss T._ Say that one on whose devoted head the black sorrows of a long lifetime have fallen, even as a funeral pall, craves a minute’s interview with a dear old friend. Do you think you can recollect that message, butler? _Sym._ I’ll try, but I beg, I _beg_ to observe, I’m not the butler. (_Aside._) This is a most surprising young person! [_Exit._ _Miss T._ At last I’m in my darling’s home, the home of the bright blythe carolling thing that lit, as with a ray of heaven’s sunlight, the murky gloom of my miserable school-days. But what do I see? Tarts? Ginger wine? There are rejoicings of some kind afoot. Alas, I am out of place here. What have I in common with tarts? Oh, I am ill-attuned to scenes of revelry! (_Takes a tart and eats it._) _Enter MINNIE._ _Min._ Belinda! (_They rush to each other’s arms._) _Miss T._ Minnie! My own long-lost lamb! This is the first gleam of joy that has lighted my darksome course this many and many a day! And in spite of the change that time and misery have brought upon me, you knew me at once! (_Eating the tart all this time._) _Min._ Oh, I felt sure it was you, from the message. _Miss T._ How wondrously fair you have grown! And this dress! Why, it is surely a bridal dress! Those tarts--that wine! Surely this is not your wedding-day? _Min._ Yes, dear, I shall be married in half an hour. _Miss T._ Oh, strange chance! Oh, unheard-of coincidence! Married! And to whom? _Min._ Oh, to the dearest love--My cousin, Mr. Cheviot Hill. Perhaps you know the name? _Miss T._ I have heard of the Cheviot Hills, somewhere. Happy--strangely happy girl! You, at least, know your husband’s name. _Min._ Oh yes, it’s on all his pocket-handkerchiefs. _Miss T._ It is much to know. I do not know mine. _Min._ Have you forgotten it? _Miss T._ No; I never knew it. It is a dark mystery. It may not be unfathomed. It is buried in the fathomless gulf of the Eternal Past. There let it lie. _Min._ Oh, tell me all about it, dear.