"I don't think it's so serious," Janet continued, "but she'd probably get over it quicker if she had a lot of fresh air and sunshine. Couldn't she have the shutters open? It would do her lots of good." Cecily and Marcia trembled at Janet's temerity and watched Miss Benedict with bated breath. But instead of being annoyed, she only seemed surprised and relieved. "Why, do you think so?" she queried. "Then--surely they may be opened. I--I do not like the--the glare of so much daylight myself, but Cecily may have it here, if she chooses." And following up her words, she pushed open one of the shutters. A broad shaft of sunlight streamed in, and, blinking from the previous gloom, Janet and Marcia threw open the others. Cecily gave a delighted cry, "Oh, how lovely it is to see the sun again!" But Miss Benedict, with an abrupt exclamation, retreated hastily from the room. The girls stayed a few moments more, chatting. Then they wisely suggested that perhaps they had better go, and not tire Cecily by too long a call. Hearing Miss Benedict's footstep in the hall below, they took their leave, promising to come again, as soon as it seemed best. On the landing of the stairway they found the black-veiled figure apparently waiting for them. Now, during all the strange little interview, a curious impression had been growing upon Janet, strengthened by every word Miss Benedict had uttered--an impression that here was no grim, forbidding jailor, such as they had imagined the mistress of "Benedict's Folly" to be. Instead, they had encountered a gentle, almost winning, little person, worried about the illness of the child in her care and plainly anxious to do everything suggested to make her more comfortable. Janet suddenly resolved on a bold move. "Cecily is so lonely," she began, turning to Miss Benedict. "Don't you think it would do her lots of good to come in and visit us once in a while? Marcia's aunt would be so glad to see her. As soon as she is a little better, can't she--" "No," interrupted Miss Benedict, her little figure suddenly stiffening and a determined note creeping into her soft voice. "I am sorry. Cecily cannot make visits. It is out of the question!" It was like striking a hidden rock in a smooth, beautiful sheet of water. And her words admitted of no argument. Janet and Marcia followed her meekly and in silence down to the front door. Here, in an uncertain pause, Marcia made one further suggestion. "May we bring Cecily some quinine?" she ventured. "If she has malaria, she ought to have that. We have lots of it at home."