"Hilda," he said abruptly, "I went to your studio the other afternoon. You were not there." Her finger flashed warningly to her lip, and her glance towards her mother turned again to him, pained and beseeching. "She--they can't hear," said Odd, in a still lower voice. "No, I was not there," Hilda repeated. "And your father, your mother, Katherine, think you are there when you are not. Is that wise? Don't be angry with me, my dear Hilda. You may have confidence in me. Tell me, do you work somewhere else?" "_No._ I am not angry. You startled me." Her look was indeed shaken, but sweet, touched even. "Yes, I work somewhere else." "And you keep it a secret?" She nodded. "Is it safe to keep secrets from your father and mother? Or is it a secret kept for their sakes, Hilda?" Peter had made mental combinations, yet he suspected that in this one he was shooting rather far from the mark. No matter. Hilda looked away, and seemed revolving some inner doubt. Her hesitation surprised him; he was more surprised when, half unwillingly, she whispered, "Yes," still not looking at him. "For their sakes," repeated Odd, his curiosity redoubled. "Come, Hilda, please tell me all about it. For _their_ sakes?" "In one way." Hilda spoke with the same air of half-unwilling confidence. But that she should confide, that she should not lock herself in stubborn silence, was much. "And as you need not keep it for my sake, you may tell me," he urged; "I may be able to help you." "Oh! I don't need help." She turned a slightly challenging look upon him. "It is no hardship to me, no trouble to keep my little secret." "You are really unkind now, Hilda." "No,"--her smile dwelt on him meditatively; "but I see no reason, no necessity for telling you. I have nothing naughty to confess!" and there was a touch of pride in her laugh. "Yes, you are unkind, for you turn my real anxiety to a jest." "You must not be anxious." Her eyes still rested on his, sweetly and gently. "Not when I see you surrounded by an atmosphere of carping criticism? When I see you coming home, night after night, worn out, too fatigued to speak? When I see that you are thin and white and sad?" Hilda drew herself up a little. "Oh, you are mistaken. But--how _kind_ of you!" and again the irradiated look lit up her face. "Does _that_ surprise you? Hilda, Katherine is in the dark about this too?" "Katherine knows; but please don't ask her about it." "She doesn't approve, then?" "Not exactly. Besides, it might hurt her. Please don't ask me either. It really isn't worth any mystery, and yet I must keep it a secret." Odd was silent for a moment, a baffling sense of pitfalls and hiding-places upon him. "But Katherine ought to tell me," he said at last, smiling.