I am too frightened to cry. Half an hour, an hour, go by. I long, yet fear, to open the door. Another quarter of an hour elapses, and then mother's step comes slowly along the corridor outside. "Phyllis, are you within, open the door." It is mother's voice, but it sounds strangely cold. I open to her, and present a woebegone face to her inspection. She comes in and comforts me for a moment silently. Then she speaks. "Phyllis, I never thought you deceitful," she says, as severely as it is in her to say anything, and with a look of reproach in her dear eyes that cuts me to the heart. "Mother," I cry passionately, "don't look at me like that. Indeed, indeed I am not deceitful. I knew nothing about it when he asked me yesterday to marry him. I was a great deal more surprised than even _you_ are now. I always thought it was Dora (and I wish with all my heart it _was_ Dora); but, though I refused him at first, he said so much afterwards that I was induced to give in. Oh, mother, won't you believe me?" "But you must have met him many times, Phyllis, before he asked you in marriage--many times of which we know _nothing_." "I did not, indeed. Whenever I saw him I told you--except once, a long time ago when we met in the wood, with Billy. But I was climbing a nut-tree that day, and was afraid to say anything of it, lest I should get into disgrace. And when we went for that drive; and two or three times we met here; and that was all. I am sure I don't know what made him fall in love with _me_, and Dora so much prettier and more charming in every way. I don't believe he knows himself." "It is certainly most extraordinary," says mother, "and, I must add, very unfortunate. You will acknowledge it looks suspicious. Your father is much disturbed about it and I really think Dora's heart must be broken, she is crying so bitterly. If we had not all made up our minds so securely about Dora it would not be so bad; but she was sure of it. And his visits here were so frequent. I really do think he has behaved very badly." "It was a mistake altogether," I murmur feebly. "Yes, and a most unhappy one. I am sure I don't know what _is_ to be done about Dora. She insists upon it that you secretly encouraged and took him away from her; and your father appears to sympathize with her." "That goes without telling," I reply bitterly. Then there follows a pause, during which mother sighs heavily once or twice, and I do severe battle with my conscience. At the end of it I cry, suddenly,--- "Mother, there is one thing for which I _do_ blame myself, but at first it did not occur to me that it might be wrong. One day we were talking of photographs, Mr. Carrington and I, and--two days afterwards I gave him mine. He put it in his locket, and when Dora saw him down by the river it was _it_ he was kissing. I never dreamed it _could_ be mine until he showed it to me yesterday."