Marcia, however, could not bring herself to this cheerful view of things. All night long she tossed beside the sleeping Janet, wondering and wondering about what the coming interview might mean, and blaming herself a thousand times for placing Cecily in the position of having deceived her guardian. When morning came she was pale and heavy-eyed, which alarmed her aunt not a little. "You ought not go out this morning, Marcia," remarked Miss Minerva, anxiously. "The sun is very hot, and you look as if you had a headache." "Oh, no, I haven't, Aunty!" cried Marcia, eagerly, fearful of a hitch in their plans. "I didn't sleep very well, but a walk in the fresh air will do me good, I know." And so Miss Minerva saw them go, without further protest. They both halted at the gate in the brick wall and looked into each other's eyes. The hot morning sun beat down upon them as they stood there, and passers-by eyed them curiously. Each was perfectly certain that the thumping of her heart could be heard. And still they stood, hesitating. "You're afraid!" accused Janet. "I'm--not!" protested Marcia. "And I'll prove it!" She raised her hand suddenly--and pulled the rusty bell-handle. It seemed a long, long time before there was any response. But at last they heard the click of the opening front door and the sound of footsteps on the path. This was followed by the creaking of a key turning in the lock of the gate. Janet gripped Marcia by the hand, and with pounding hearts they stood together, while the gate slowly opened. In another instant, the veiled, black-gowned figure of Miss Benedict stood before them. She waited a moment, silent, appearing to look them over critically. "Come in, if you please!" she said at last, very softly, and held the gate open for them. They entered obediently, and she shut the gate. It was not until they were inside the house, standing in the dim hall with the front door closed behind them, that another word was spoken. Then Miss Benedict faced them again, but she did not remove her bonnet or throw back her veil. "I have asked you to come here this morning," she began, "because I understand that you have become acquainted with the child Cecily Marlowe." Cold chills ran up and down their spines. It had come at last! "Yes," faltered Janet, "we--we _have_ become acquainted with her." It was not a brilliant reply, but, for the life of her, she could think of nothing else to say. They waited, shuddering, for what might be coming next. "So she has told me," went on Miss Benedict. "I also understand that lately you have been dropping notes to her into the garden--at night." Janet noticed, even in the midst of her trepidation, how wonderfully sweet and soft and harmonious the voice was. "Yes," replied Marcia, very low, "we have." The worst was out--now let the blow fall! They braced themselves to receive it. "Cecily is ill!" said Miss Benedict, abruptly. They each uttered a startled little "Oh!"