It was past midnight, that night, before the two girls could settle themselves for a wink of sleep. So bewildering had been Cecily's revelations about herself and Miss Benedict and the conditions in the mysterious house, that they found inexhaustible food for discussion and conjecture. The most interesting question, of course, was the absorbing mystery of how Cecily came to be there at all. "Why should her mother have sent her there?" demanded Marcia, for the twentieth time. "Perhaps she was a relative," ventured Janet. "That's perfect nonsense," argued Marcia, "for then Miss Benedict would surely have acted quite differently. If she had been the most distant connection, Miss Benedict would surely have told her. No, I should say she might be the child of a friend that Miss Benedict never cared particularly about, and yet she doesn't quite like to send her away. Isn't it a puzzle? But what _do_ you think of Miss Benedict being _beautiful_! I can't imagine it!" "And then, too, think of Cecily's not knowing there was another old lady in the house!" added Janet. "What a darling Cecily is!" exclaimed Marcia, irrelevantly. "If Miss Benedict knew how sweet and loyal and obedient Cecily is, she'd be a little less strict with her, I'm sure. I suppose she doesn't want her to gossip about what goes on in that queer house. And, by the way, we must get our string in working order to-morrow. Let's send her other things beside notes, too--things she'd enjoy." And until they fell asleep they planned the campaign for lightening the lonely hours of the girl next door. [Illustration: "They heard Cecily's light footsteps"] Next day they jointly wrote a long letter,--telling all about themselves, their homes, their schools, their studies, and any other items they thought might interest her,--fastened it to the end of the string, and dropped it into the dark garden after nightfall. Later they heard Cecily's light footsteps in the gloom below, and when they pulled up the string just before they went to bed, the note was gone. "Well, she's evidently decided that it would be all right for her to take it," said Janet; "and I'm relieved, even if she doesn't answer. I can see why she mightn't think it right to do _that_. And now we must plan to send her something besides, every once in a while. I should think she'd just die of lonesomeness in that old place, and with hardly a thing to do, either!" That night they sent her down a little box of fudge that they had made in the afternoon, and the next night a book that had captivated them both. And when they pulled up the string the evening after, there was the book again, and in it a tiny note, which ran: DEAR GIRLS: You are too, too good to me. I ought not to be writing this. It is wrong, I fear, but I just cannot sleep until I have thanked you for the sweets, and this beautiful book. I read it all, to-day. You are making me very happy. I love you both. CECILY.