"I suddenly realized how very lonely I was, how desirable it would be to have with me a young companion--like Cecily. I know that the life I lead is--is different--and peculiar. It is owing to unusual circumstances that I cannot explain to you. But I have become so accustomed to this life that of late years I scarcely realized it _was_ so--different. But when I saw Cecily--I felt suddenly--its loneliness." With the laying aside of her veil, Miss Benedict seemed also to have laid aside some of the reticence in which she had shrouded herself. And her three hearers, listening spellbound, realized how utterly charming she could be--if she _allowed_ herself to be so. "A great desire seized me," she went on, "to take her in and keep her with me a while. If, later, some one came to claim her, well and good. I would let her go. Or if no one came and I found I had been mistaken,--that she was not companionable,--I could make some other provision for her. Meantime, I would yield to this new desire and enjoy her presence--here. In addition to that, the lady in whose company she had traveled was not in position to keep Cecily longer with her, and the child would be left without protection. So I took her in. And so I have kept her ever since, because I am daily becoming more--attached to her." It was a great admission for this reticent little lady, and they all realized it. So deeply were they impressed that none of them could make any response. Presently Miss Benedict continued: "After Cecily had told me her story I determined to write to the village of Cranby, England, and find out what I could about her mother, Mrs. Marlowe. I knew no one to whom I could address the inquiries, but sent them on chance to the vicar of the parish church. In due time I received a reply. It stated that Mrs. Marlowe was not a native of that town, but came there to live about twelve years ago, with her three-year-old daughter. Nothing was known about her personal affairs except that her husband and all her people were dead, and that she had come there from a distant part of England because the climate of her former home did not agree with her little daughter. She never talked much about herself, and lived in a very retired, quiet way. She left no property or effects of any value. Why she should have sent her child to me was as much a mystery as ever. About Cecily's father the vicar knew nothing. That is all the information I have." Miss Benedict stopped abruptly. Cecily opened her lips to say something, then closed them again without having spoken. Marcia fidgeted uneasily in her chair. Miss Benedict looked down at her lap. An embarrassed silence seemed to have fallen on them all. Only Janet, knitting her brows over the puzzle, was unaware of it.