"At least she did not mock at it--not in the very slightest," said Hertha. "And--there was something more, that day she fainted, you remember?" "Yes," said Celia. "Did she never tell you what she had felt?" And Hertha repeated what Winifred had told her. Celia shook her head. "No, she never told me. She knows I have always been so frightened about it. But--I scarcely see why she came, or tried to come, to Winifred herself, when the point _was_ gained and she had given in?" "Ah--I must tell you the rest, and this I think impressed your sister most of all. A day or two after I returned to London, after that Easter time--I went, at her request, to collect her things and pay some money _she_ thought due to the people she had lodged with. What do you think I found? A deserted house--in the possession of the police. There had been a fire the night but one before, caused, no doubt, by the people themselves, for they were a very undesirable lot. They had all escaped, however, as they lived below; but the upper rooms, the very rooms Winifred had had, were literally gutted--in a state of black, charred desolation. We cannot say, of course, but when I explained my errand, the policeman said the lady should be thankful that she had been prevented returning. `Ten to one if she could have been got out alive,' he said." "Oh, Hertha!" exclaimed Celia, horror-struck. "And you told Winifred?" "Yes, though not immediately. She was still ill when it happened. But I think it impressed her exceedingly. Still, as she has not told you about it, it may be as well never to mention it." "I will never do so," said Celia. "But I think I shall never feel _afraid_ of the White Weeper again." Then she went on to tell her friend about Louise and Lennox in their own house, their marriage having taken place the preceding autumn. "They are as happy as the good people in a fairy tale," she said. When Celia went home the next time--a little more than a year after she had joined Miss Norreys, she took with her an astonishing piece of news. Hertha, Winifred's typical, self-dependent woman, _Hertha_, was going to be married! "It is an old story," said Celia, calmly. "An old story, ending very beautifully, _I_ think. I cannot tell you much, for I do not know the whole. But they were separated for years, through nobody's fault exactly, and neither has ever cared for any one else," she added simply. "All the same," said Winifred, "I am just a _little_ disappointed in her." Celia's own plans were not materially affected by this unexpected event, as, having by this time gathered experience, she was able to go on with her studies without actually sharing her friend's home. Before long, those studies led her further afield for a time. But this sketch, or rough outline, rather--not worthy of the name of a story--of some girls' experiences, must come to an end without chronicling the successes of the young painter, of whom great things are prophesied.