"You had better not say anything," interrupted Harriet. "How dare you talk and force yourself on Mr Durrant's notice? you horrid little sneak!" "Those are not at all pretty words, Harriet," said Mr Durrant; "and they absolutely force me to listen to whatever Jane Bush may have to say. What is it, Jane? Speak." "Well, sir; it was this," said Jane. "It was this. Harriet didn't expect any telegram to be waiting for her on board the `Sea-Gull.'" "What?" said Mr Durrant. "No, sir: but she told me to go to you and to tell you that there might be one; and it was I that thought of it, sir. I thought of a plan for Harriet to prove to you and to all the world that she was very brave and could save Ralph's life. She asked me if I could think of a plan, and I thought of that. And you told me to tell the girls not to bathe; and I only told Harriet, and she would not tell the others; she wanted to prove to you, sir, that she was brave and could save Ralph's life, and-- and--I could not bear it any longer, and--and--I went back to the yacht; and oh--oh--she was to give me five pounds, and I don't want it now--and I am the most awfully miserable girl in all the wide world!" This story, which came from Jane with bursts of tears and unutterable sobs, at first sounded like mere confusion; but Mr Durrant, who had got a very orderly--indeed, almost lawyer-like mind,--soon put the broken and jagged edges of this queer narrative together; and by slow degrees and careful investigation, the whole naked truth came out. And as is the way with such truths, a great deal more came out than Jane had at first intended to reveal; for the whole incident of the pond, and the willow tree, and Ralph's fall into the pond, and Harriet's apparently noble conduct in trying to save him, came also to the fore; and the fact that poor Robina had overheard some of Harriet's and Jane's plottings and plannings was also brought to the light of day; so that a very, very ugly story was revealed to the astonished ears of the good man who thought that he was providing so very well for his little son. Quite early, however, in the narrative, he did a somewhat queer thing. He took Ralph by the hand, and led him to the door. "You need not listen to any more of this," he said. "You will find Robina somewhere in the house; go to her." The amazed little boy found himself in the hall, shut away from all the school-mothers--from Harriet, who looked so terrible, and who had done such queer things that he certainly could not love her any longer; from Jane Bush, who seemed nearly as bad, and yet whom he, in his childish and affectionate way, pitied; and from Patience and the others, who were quite nice, but who had only, somehow or other, seen the outside of his heart. But there was Robina, and she had not gone. He would find her.