Mrs. Clapham was herself again at last, her own courageous, splendidly-sane self. She was still weary, of course, still grieving and broken and lame, but life was swinging back again to its true proportions. Under Martha Jane’s stimulus she roused herself a second time to weigh the matter that was at stake. She did not need the telegram under her eyes to know that the woman before her was speaking the truth. Other things, speaking just as clearly, were before her eyes, sign-posts pointing only too plainly to the irrefutable fact. Emma’s unusual “joining-on,” her fear of the bell and the black gown, were all details striking resoundingly a similar note. Especially was the problem of the “little chat” made clear, that sinister conversation which had puzzled her so at the time. She needed no telling now why Emma had insisted upon the letter to the Committee, why throughout the whole of her studied talk there had been that deliberate exclusion of herself. The dwelling upon the Catterall likeness, the continual harping upon her health—what were they both but part of the same carefully-thought-out method to the same end? Last of all she remembered the faces pressed to the Post Office panes, and knew now why they had vanished, stricken with horror, at her innocent smile.... It was impossible, of course, to doubt that Emma really wanted the children, wanted them passionately, indeed, judging by the lengths to which she was willing to go; and perhaps it was harsh to insist that, in face of such conduct, repentance was altogether out of the question. She would not be the first, as even Mrs. Clapham was well aware, to have done wrong in order that good might come. Yet it was hard to believe that she could want the children for any kindly purpose, that her Ethiopian soul could under any conditions change its skin. Would any woman, for instance, with a heart softened either by nature or time, have schemed to keep a mother from her dying child? A fresh wave of sorrow engulfed Mrs. Clapham when she remembered that, but for Emma, she might still have seen Tibbie alive. No, there could be no question now of entrusting the children to her, after that. Her expression changed slowly as she looked steadily at Martha Jane, and for the first time she seemed to resemble the happy Mrs. Clapham of the happy morning. “Nay, Martha Jane,” she said quietly, “I can believe you without that. You’re welcome enough to the house if you’ve luck to get it. And now that I know the rights of the case,” she added firmly, “I promise them children shan’t go to Emma.” “And what about your promise to me!” Emma quivered and quavered, facing her red-cheeked, with rampantly threshing arms.