"So we've both had a hand in it," she said when she returned. "Oh, Cathy, last night only he let you throw the wretched stuff out of the window, and the very next day has to go and order some more. Poor dear old boy! He must have ordered it when he went in with Theodosia after lunch. He must have told them he wanted it quickly. It's death and hell, you know. I didn't stop to think. I had to throw it into the river. What next? Are we to know anything about it or not?" "Yes; he would find out in any case. The chemist's man would say he gave it to me. But there is no reason why you should come into it." "Oh, give me my share," said Maud quickly. "I want to help." "Of course you can help; but I am quite willing to take the whole responsibility for what we have done," said Catherine. "No; I want it to come from both of us," said Maud, "if that is of any use." Catherine considered this. "It is," she said. "You have more weight with him than I have, you know." There was no trace of any bitterness in her tone. It was plain unemotional speech, but it struck Maud as one of the saddest things she had ever heard said. She had long known, of course, that the married life of her brother and Catherine was not very happy, but this afternoon the tragedy of it was becoming, by these little trivial words, infinitely more real. And the materials for tragedy were being dreadfully augmented. This little bottle she had just thrown into the Thames was like one of those little incidents in the first act of a play, from which disaster will certainly be evolved later. What hideous scene in the last act did the great Playwright of life mean to make out of this? Then suddenly some memory of things Mr. Cochrane had said to her up in Scotland, some sentences from a book concerning Christian Science which he had lent her, came back to her mind. He had warned her that she would find in it certain things which would seem to her ridiculous, and he had asked her to pass over those. But he had told her that she would also find there certain things which were indisputably true, and, remembering one of them, she told herself now that she was thinking wrongly in anticipating evil like this. If she was to be of any use in the world, or produce any happiness in herself or others, she must turn away from evil, must deny it, and look at and affirm this great reality of Love and Good. To dwell on sin and error and on their consequences was to invite them, to make them her guests. It was another Guest--a very willing One--that was to be made welcome, but He was autocratic: you had to do His bidding all the time, even in details. "Yes, let me help," she said. "And we must tell him at once what we have done. Don't let us deceive him, even if we could." "He will be furious," said Catherine.