"Because she never talks about herself. She never contrives to draw attention to the matter. You don't hear Prue informing other people, unasked, how she has slept, and how she has eaten, and what are her latest sensations." "No; that is it. Prue always seems to go quietly on just the same, whatever she feels. She does look very pale sometimes—and she is thin—but all this worry about the home—and the shock of the chimney falling—" "My theory is different. Prue does not look as she should look: but I don't believe the chimneys have had much to do with the matter. I believe it is wholly and entirely Mr. Kelly." Lettice opened her lips, and shut them again. "Nothing but Mr. Kelly," repeated Bertha, watching Lettice critically. "I never thought of such a thing." "You know Mr. Kelly well." "He comes to see us sometimes, not often. He has always been kind to Felix; and now I do a little work in the Parish for him." "And you find him pleasant?" "Yes—very. Why not, Bertha?" "Does he ever speak of Prue?" "Sometimes." "But he does not show any especial liking?" "He likes Prue, of course. Every one does." "Don't you understand me yet? I am treating you as one of ourselves—and trusting you. Of course this is in strict confidence. But for Prue's sake, I thought I would ask you if you had noticed anything. Did you ever hear of the past time, when Prue knew him? Years ago." "I know he is an old acquaintance." "More than a mere acquaintance. For weeks we were thrown together, and he seemed to be definitely seeking Prue. I should have said there could be no mistake about the matter. And Prue gave him her whole heart. Poor dear! How happy she was! Then suddenly he drew back, and went away without a word. We lost sight of him for years. Prue suffered terribly, but she would not talk of him—would not allow any one to blame him. And I was as sure as she was that there must be some mistake—only, what could one do?" "And you believe that Prue cares for Mr. Kelly still?" "If Prue gives her love once, she gives it for ever. Don't you know her well enough to know that?" Lettice sat lost in thought. "The question is—does he care for her now?" Bertha went on. "Bertha, I almost think he does." "You don't imagine that he has taken to somebody else?" "No." Bertha saw that a certain conjecture in her own mind had not so much as penetrated into Lettice's thoughts; the idea of Mr. Kelly in connection with herself was non-existent. "No," she repeated; "certainly nobody that I have come across. I don't know most of Mr. Kelly's friends, of course. But now that I think of it, I have noticed how he talks of Prue. I thought it was because she is such a friend of mine, only—" "Men are not so accommodating. They don't understand the force of female friendships." "But if he does care, why should he not speak?"