Then Marcia recounted what she had seen on the night the wind tore open the shutter. "How strange this all is," she ended, "that Miss Benedict should never tell you who this person is! Why do you suppose she is keeping it a secret?" As this was a problem none of them could solve, they could only conjecture vainly about it as they walked along. But by this time they had approached within a block of the house itself, and before they turned the corner once more they all unconsciously halted. "Cecily," said Marcia, suddenly inspired with a bright idea. "I have the grandest scheme! If Miss Benedict is going to do the marketing after this, perhaps we won't see you again for some time. But I've a plan by which we can _hear_ from each other as often as we like. You take a walk in the garden every night, don't you?" "No, not always," answered Cecily. "Miss Benedict allows me to, but often I don't care to. It's so dark and--and lonesome." "Well, after this, be sure to go out every night. Our window, you know, is directly over the garden wall, only three stories up. I'm going to have a long string with a weight attached to it, and fasten it in the window. Every night, after dark, we'll write a note to you, fasten it to the string, and drop it down into the garden among the bushes. You can find it in the dark by feeling for the string, and if you have one written to us, you can fasten it on, and we'll pull it up. Isn't that a dandy idea?" Cecily's eyes sparkled for a moment, but suddenly her face clouded. "Oh, it--it would be glorious!" she murmured. "Only--I must not. Even if Miss Benedict doesn't know about it, I know she would forbid it if she did. So--it would be wrong for me to do it!" "Oh, Cecily! why should you care?" cried Marcia, impatiently, "And why should she object to three girls sending little notes to one another? It would be cruel to forbid that. It isn't really wrong, you know." "But she isn't cruel to me," Cecily interrupted. "You mustn't think that. She--well, somehow, I feel she _would_ be nice to me, only something is holding her back. She isn't a bit cruel. I sometimes feel as if I could care for her in spite of everything. So I don't want to go against her wishes." "Well, then," began Janet, "here's a way out of it. We will write to _you_ anyway. Miss Benedict can't forbid us to do that, and you needn't answer at all--needn't even read them, if you don't want to. But we'll write, nevertheless, and you can't prevent it!" When Cecily smiled, her face lit up as if touched by a shaft of sunlight. And she smiled now. "I don't believe I _ought_ to read them," she said; "but, oh! it would keep me from being so very lonely. But I must be going back now. I've been longer than usual. Good-by!" Cecily was still smiling as she turned away, while Janet and Marcia stood looking after her, waving farewell to her as she rounded the corner. CHAPTER VIII AT THE END OF THE STRING