Produced by Annie R. McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.









[Illustration: Book Cover]




THE GIRL NEXT DOOR




[Illustration: Marcia turned to stare out of the window at the house
opposite]




THE GIRL NEXT DOOR


BY
AUGUSTA HUIELL SEAMAN

Author of "The Sapphire Signet," "The
Boarded-Up House," etc.


ILLUSTRATED BY
C. M. RELYEA


[Illustration]


NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.




Copyright, 1917, by
THE CENTURY CO.




TO
HOA-SIAN-SIN-NÎU
(Margaret Gillespie Fagg)

AND TO THE MEMORY OF
HOA-SIAN-SIN
(John Gerardus Fagg, D.D.)

THIS BOOK IS
AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
      I MARCIA'S SECRET                                                3
     II THE FACE BEHIND THE SHUTTER                                   20
    III THE GATE OPENS                                                32
     IV THE BACKWARD GLANCE                                           43
      V THE HANDKERCHIEF IN THE WINDOW                                54
     VI CECILY REVEALS HERSELF                                        62
    VII SURPRISES ALL AROUND                                          72
   VIII AT THE END OF THE STRING                                      81
     IX FOR THE SAKE OF CECILY                                        94
      X THE FILIGREE BRACELET                                        111
     XI THE LIFTED VEIL                                              119
    XII MISS BENEDICT SPEAKS                                         129
   XIII VIA WIRELESS                                                 141
    XIV THE WRITING ON THE BRACELETS                                 149
     XV PUZZLING IT OUT                                              160
    XVI ONE MYSTERY EXPLAINED                                        170
   XVII MAJOR GOODRICH ASSISTS                                       183
  XVIII THE MAJOR HAS A FURTHER INSPIRATION                          192
    XIX THE UNEXPECTED                                               206
     XX AUNT MINERVA TAKES COMMAND                                   227
    XXI SIX MONTHS LATER                                             251




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE
  Marcia turned to stare out of the window at the house
      opposite                                            _Frontispiece_
  Cecily Marlowe passed them by without a look                        49
  They heard Cecily's light footsteps                                 83
  "I'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't open these
      shutters," cried Janet, suddenly                               105
  In the sudden light of the open door she stood revealed            125
  "Words on two bracelets are identical," replied Lee Ching,
      precisely                                                      157
  "Child, I suppose you wonder very much at this queer life
      I lead"                                                        171
  "Sydney must have come in again; I hear him practising!"           257




THE GIRL NEXT DOOR




CHAPTER I

MARCIA'S SECRET


"Marcia Brett, do you mean to tell me--"

"Tell you--what?"

"That you've had a secret two whole months and never told me about it
yet? And I'm your _best_ friend!"

"I was waiting till you came to the city, Janet. I wanted to _tell_ you;
I didn't want to _write_ it."

"Well, I've been in the city twelve hours, and you never said a word
about it till just now."

"But, Janet, we've been sight-seeing ever since you arrived. You can't
very well tell secrets when you're sight-seeing, you know!"

"Well, you might have given me a hint about it long ago. You know we've
solemnly promised never to have any secrets from each other, and yet
you've had one _two whole months_?"

"No, Jan, I haven't had it quite as long as that. Honest! It didn't
begin till quite a while after I came; in fact, not till about three or
four weeks ago."

"Tell me all about it right away, then, and perhaps I'll forgive you!"

The two girls cuddled up close to each other on the low couch by the
open window and lowered their voices to a whisper. Through the warm
darkness of the June night came the hum of a great city, a subdued,
murmurous sound, strangely unfamiliar to one of the girls, who was in
the city for the first time in all her country life. To the other the
sound had some time since become an accustomed one. As they leaned their
elbows on the sill and, chins in hand, stared out into the darkness,
Marcia began:

"Well, Jan, I might as well commence at the beginning, so you'll
understand how it all happened. I've been just crazy to tell you, but
I'm not good at letter-writing, and there's such a lot to explain that I
thought I'd wait till your visit.

"You know, when we first moved to this apartment, last April, from 'way
back in Northam, I was all excitement for a while just to be living in
the city. Everything was _so_ different. Really, I acted so _silly_--you
wouldn't believe it! I used to run down to the front door half a dozen
times a day, just to push the bell and see the door open all by itself!
It seemed like something in a fairy-story. And for the longest while I
couldn't get used to the dumb-waiter or the steam-heat or the electric
lights, and all that sort of thing. It _is_ awfully different from our
old-fashioned little Northam--now isn't it?"

"Yes, I feel just that way this minute," admitted Janet.

"And then, too," went on Marcia, "there were all the things outside to
do and see--the trolleys and stores and parks and museums and the zoo!
Aunt Minerva said I went around 'like a distracted chicken' for a while!
And beside that, we used to have the greatest fun shopping for new
furniture and things for this apartment. Hardly a bit of that big old
furniture we brought with us would fit into it, these rooms are so much
smaller than the ones in our old farm-house.

"Well, anyhow, for a while I was too busy and interested and excited to
think of another thing--"

"Yes, too busy to even write to _me_!" interrupted Janet. "I had about
one letter in two weeks from you, those days. And you'd _promised_ to
write every other day!"

"Oh well, never mind that now! You'd have done the same, I guess. If you
don't let me go on, I'll never get to the _secret_! After a while,
though, I got used to all the new things, and I'd seen all the sights,
and Aunt Minerva had finished all the furnishing except the curtains and
draperies (she's at that, yet!), and all of a sudden everything fell
flat. I hadn't begun my music-lessons, and there didn't seem to be a
thing to do, or a single interest in life.

"The truth is, Jan, I was frightfully lonesome--for _you_!" Here Marcia
felt her hand squeezed in the darkness. "Perhaps you don't realize it,
but living in an apartment in a big city is the _queerest_ thing! You
don't know your neighbor that lives right across the hall. You don't
know a soul in the house. And as far as I can see, you're not likely to
if you lived here fifty years! Nobody calls on you as they do on a new
family in the country. Nobody seems to care a rap who you are, or
whether you live or die, or anything. And would you believe it, Janet,
there isn't another girl in this whole apartment, either older or
younger than myself! No one but grown-ups.

"So you can see how awfully lonesome I've been. And as Aunt Minerva had
decided not to send me to high school till fall, I didn't have a chance
to get acquainted with any one of my own age. Actually, it got so I
didn't do much else but moon around and mark off the days till school in
Northam closed and you could come. And, oh, I'm _so_ glad you're here
for the summer! Isn't it gorgeous!" She hugged her chum spasmodically.

"But to go on. I'm telling you all this so you can see what led up to my
doing what I did about--the _secret_. It began one awfully rainy
afternoon last month. I'd been for a walk in the wet, just for exercise,
and when I came in, Aunt Minerva was out shopping. I hadn't a new book
to read nor a blessed thing to do, so I sat down right here by the
window and got to thinking and wondering _why_ things were so unevenly
divided--why you, Jan, should have a mother and father and a big, jolly
lot of brothers and sisters, and I should be just _one_, all alone,
living with Aunt Minerva (though she's lovely to me), with no mother,
and a father away nearly all the time on his ship.

"And it seemed as if I just hated this apartment, with its little rooms,
like cubbyholes, all in a row. I longed to be back in Northam. And
looking out of the window, I even thought I'd give anything to live in
that big, rambling, dingy, old place next door, beyond the brick wall,
for at least one could go up and down _stairs_ to the different rooms.

"And then, if you'll believe me, Jan, as I stared at that house it
began to dawn on me that I'd never really 'taken it in' before--that it
was a very strange-looking old place. And because I didn't have another
mortal thing to do, I just sat and stared at it as if I'd never seen it
before, and began to wonder and wonder about it. For there were a number
of things about it that seemed decidedly _queer_."

"What's it like, anyway?" questioned Janet. "There were so many other
things to see to-day that I didn't notice it at all. And it's so dark
now I can't see a thing."

"Why, it's a big, square, four-story brick house, and it's terribly in
need of paint. Looks as if it hadn't had a coat in years and years. It
stands 'way back from the street, in a sort of ragged, weedy garden, and
there's a high brick wall around the whole place, except for a heavy
wooden gate at the front covered with ironwork. That gate is always
closed. A stone walk runs from the gate to the front door. 'Way back at
the rear of the garden is an old brick stable that looks as if it hadn't
been opened or used in years.

"You'll see all this yourself, Janet, when you look out of the window in
the morning. For this apartment-house runs along close to the brick
wall, and as we're three floors up, you get a good view of the whole
place. This window in my room is the _very_ best place of all to see
it--fortunately.

"But the queer thing about it is that, though the shutters are all
tightly closed or bowed,--every one!--and the whole place looks
deserted, it really _isn't_! There's some one living in it; and once in
a long while you happen to see signs of it. For instance, that very
afternoon I saw this: 'most all the shutters are tightly closed, but on
the second floor they are usually just bowed. And that day the slats in
one of them were open, and I thought I could see a muslin curtain
flapping behind it. But while I was looking, the fingers of a hand
suddenly appeared between the slats and snapped them shut with a jerk.

"Of course, there's nothing so awfully strange about a thing like that,
_as a rule_, but somehow the way it was done seemed _mysterious_. I
can't explain just why. Anyhow, as I hadn't anything else to do, I
concluded I'd sit there for a while longer and see if something else
would happen. But nothing did--not for nearly an hour; and I was getting
tired of the thing and just going to get up and go away _when_--"

"_What?_" breathed Janet, in an excited whisper.

"The big front door opened (it was nearly dark by that time) and out
crept the queerest little figure! It appeared to be a little old woman
all dressed in dingy black clothes that looked as if they must have come
out of the ark, they were so old-fashioned! Her hat was a queer little
bonnet, with no trimming except a heavy black veil that came down over
her face. She had a small market-basket on her arm, and a big old
umbrella.

"But the queerest thing was the way she scuttled down the path to the
gate, like a frightened rabbit, turning her head from side to side, as
if she was afraid of being seen or watched. When she got to the gate,
she had to put down her basket and umbrella and use both hands to
unlock it with a huge key. When she got outside of it, on the street,
she shut the gate behind her, and of course I couldn't see her any more.

"Well, it set me to wondering and wondering what the story of that queer
old house and queer little old lady could be. It seemed as if there
_must_ be some story about it, or some explanation; for, you see, it's a
big place, and evidently at one time must have been very handsome. And
it stands right here in one of the busiest and most valuable parts of
the city.

"The more I thought of it, the more curious I grew. But the worst of it
was that I didn't know a soul who could tell me the least thing about
it. Aunt Minerva couldn't, of course, and I wasn't acquainted with
another person in the city. It just seemed as if I _must_ find some
explanation. Then, all of a sudden, I thought of our new colored maid.
Perhaps she might have heard something about it. I made up my mind I'd
go right out to the kitchen. So I went and started her talking about
things in general and finally asked her if she knew anything about that
old house. And _then_--I wish you could have heard her! I can't tell it
all the way she did, but this is the substance of it:

"It seems that she's discovered that the janitor here is the son of an
old friend from North Carolina. Of course she's been talking to him a
lot, and he has told her all about the whole neighborhood, and
especially about the queer old house next door. He says it's known all
around here as 'Benedict's Folly.'"

"Why?" queried Janet.

"Well, because years and years ago, when the owner built it (his name
was Benedict), it was 'way out of the city limits, and everybody thought
he was awfully foolish, going so far, and building a handsome city house
off in the wilderness. But he wasn't so foolish after all, for the city
came right up and surrounded him in the end, and the property is worth
no end of money now.

"But here's the queer thing about it. Old Mr. Benedict's been dead many
years, and the place looks as if no one lived there--but _some one
does_! It's a daughter of his, a queer little old lady, who keeps
herself shut up there all the time; some think she's alone, others say
no, that some one else is there with her. No one seems to know
definitely. Anyhow, although she is very wealthy, she does all the work
herself, and the marketing; and she even carries home all the things,
and won't allow a single one of the tradesmen to come in.

"Mr. Simmonds (that's our janitor) says that two years ago, in the
winter, a water-pipe there burst, and Miss Benedict just _had_ to get a
plumber; and he afterward told awfully peculiar things about the way the
house looked,--the furniture all draped and covered up, and even the
pictures on the walls covered, too,--and not a single modern improvement
except the running water and some old-fashioned gas-fixtures. And the
little old lady never raised her veil while he was there, so he couldn't
see what she looked like.

"Mr. Simmonds says every one thinks there is some great mystery about
'Benedict's Folly,' but no one seems to be able to guess what it can
be. Now, Janet, isn't that just fascinating? Think of living next door
to a mystery!"

"It's simply thrilling!" sighed Janet. "But, Marcia, I still don't see
what this has to do with a _secret_. Where do _you_ come in? I don't see
why you couldn't have written all this to me."

"Wait!" said Marcia. "I haven't finished yet. That was absolutely all I
could get out of our maid Eliza, all she or any one else knew, in fact.
But as you can imagine, I couldn't get the thing out of my mind, and I
couldn't stop looking at the old place, either. I tried to talk to Aunt
Minerva about it, but she wasn't a bit interested. Said she couldn't
understand how any one could keep house in that slovenly fashion, and
that's all she would say. So I gave up trying to interest _her_.

"Now, I must tell you the odd thing that happened that very night. You
know I've said it was raining hard all that day, and by ten o'clock the
wind was blowing a gale. I was just ready for bed, and had turned off
my light and raised the shade, when I thought I'd take another peep at
my mysterious mansion across the fence. All I could see, however, were
just some streaks of light through the chinks in the shutters in that
one room on the second floor. All the rest of the place was as dark as a
pocket. And as I sat staring out, it suddenly came to me what fun it
would be to try to unravel the whole mysterious affair all by myself. It
would certainly help me to pass the dull days till you came!

"But then, too, the only way to do it would be to watch this old place
like a cat, and I knew _that_ wouldn't be right. It would be too much
like spying into your neighbor's affairs, and, of course, that's horrid.
Finally, I concluded, that if I could do it without being meddlesome or
prying, I'd just watch the place a _little_ and see if anything
interesting would happen. And while I was thinking this, a strange thing
_did_ happen--that very minute!

"The wind had grown terrific, and, all of a sudden, it just took one of
the shutters of that lighted room, and ripped it from its fastening,
and threw it back against the wall. And the next moment a figure hurried
to the window, leaned out, and drew the shutter back in place again. But
just for one instant I had caught a glimpse of the whole inside of the
room! And what do you suppose I saw, Jan?"

"_What?_" demanded Janet.

"Well, not much of the furnishing, except a lighted oil-lamp on a table.
But, directly in the center of the room, in a perfectly enormous
armchair sat--a woman! And it wasn't the one I'd seen in the afternoon,
either. I'm sure of that. I couldn't see her face, for it was in shadow,
but she was looking down at something spread out on her lap. And she
held her right hand over it in the air and waved it back and forth, sort
of uncertainly. You can't imagine what a strange picture it was--and
then the shutter was closed. There was something so _weird_ about it
all.

"If I was curious before, I was simply _wild_ with interest then. It
seemed as if I _must_ know what it all meant--what that strange old lady
could be doing, sitting there in state in the middle of the room, and
all the rest of it. You don't blame me, do you, Jan?"

"Indeed I don't! I'd be ten times worse, I guess. But what about the
_secret_? And _did_ you find out anything else?"

"Yes, I did. And that's the secret. The whole mysterious thing is in the
secret, because no one but you knows I'm the least interested in the
affair, and I don't want them to--now! I'll tell you what happened
next."

But just at this moment they were interrupted by a knock at the door,
and a voice inquiring:

"Girls, _girls_! haven't you gone to bed yet? I've heard you talking for
the last hour."

"No, Aunt Minerva!" answered Marcia, "we are sitting by the window."

"Well, you must go to bed _at once_! It's nearly midnight. You won't
either of you be fit for a thing to-morrow. Now, mind, not another word!
Good-night!"

"Good-night!" they both answered, but heaved a sigh when Aunt Minerva
was out of hearing.

"It's no use!" whispered Marcia. "We'll have to stop for to-night. But
there's lots more, and the _most_ interesting part of it, too. Well,
never mind, I'll tell you all the rest to-morrow!"




CHAPTER II

THE FACE BEHIND THE SHUTTER


Janet had no sooner hopped out of bed next morning than she flew to the
window to examine "Benedict's Folly" by broad daylight. In the streaming
sun of a June morning the dingy old mansion certainly bore out the truth
of Marcia's mysterious description.

"Gracious! I should think you would have been interested in it from the
first!" she exclaimed.

"Interested in what?" yawned Marcia, sleepily, opening her eyes.

"'Benedict's Folly,' of course! Let's see," went on Janet, who possessed
a very practical, orderly mind; "from your story last night it seems
there must be two people living there--but look here! how did you know,
Marcia, that it was another old lady you saw that night when the shutter
blew open?"

"Why, for several reasons," answered Marcia. "In the first place, the
one who goes out is short and slight. The one sitting in the chair was
evidently large, and rather stout, and--and different, somehow, although
I didn't see either of their faces. And then, it wasn't the lady in the
chair who closed the shutter. She evidently never moved. So it _must_
have been some one else."

"Yes, it must have been," agreed Janet, convinced. "Queer that nobody
seems to know about the second one. I wonder who she is? And are there
any more? Go on with your story, Marcia."

"No," said Marcia. "Wait till we can be by ourselves for a long while. I
don't want to be interrupted. Aunt Minerva's going out this morning, and
then we'll have a chance."

So, later in the morning, the two girls sat by Marcia's window, each
occupied with a dainty bit of embroidery, and Marcia began anew:

"Well, after that rainy night, for several days I didn't see a thing
more that was interesting about the old house or the queer people who
live in it. I used to watch once in a while to see if the little lady in
black would go out again in the afternoon, as she did before, but she
didn't. Then, a day or two later, I did something that surprised even
myself, for I hadn't the faintest _intention_ of doing it. I had been
taking a walk that afternoon and was just coming home, passing on the
way the high brick wall of the Benedict house. It was just as I reached
the closed gate that an idea popped into my head.

"You know, they say that no visitors are ever admitted, and no rings or
knocks at the gate are ever answered. Well, something suddenly prompted
me to ring that bell and see what would happen. I never stopped to ask
myself what I should say if some one came and inquired what I wanted. I
just rang it suddenly (and I had to pull hard, the old thing was so
rusty) and far away somewhere in the house I heard a faint tinkle.

"Then I got kind of panic-stricken, wondering what I'd say if any one
did really come. But I needn't have worried, for what do you suppose
happened?"

"Nothing!" answered Janet, promptly.

"That's just where you're mistaken; but you'd never guess what it was.
About a minute after I'd rung the bell, I heard light footsteps on the
walk behind the gate. _But_, instead of coming _toward_ the gate, they
were hurrying _away_ from it; and in another minute I heard the front
door close. After that it was all quiet, and nothing else happened. Then
I went on home."

"I know," interrupted Janet, whose quick mind had already worked out the
problem, "exactly what occurred. It was Miss Benedict, who had been just
about to come out on her way to do the marketing. And your ring
frightened her, and sent her hurrying back into the house. _Isn't_ it
all singular!"

"Yes, that must have been it," agreed Marcia. "And it made me more
curious than ever to understand about it. And I was so annoyed at myself
for ringing at all. If I hadn't, I might have seen Miss Benedict close
by, when she came out of the gate. It served me right for doing such a
thing, anyhow!

"But after that I got to watching, every time I went out, thinking I
might see her on the street somewhere, especially if it was about the
time she usually did her marketing--along toward dusk. Several days
passed, however, and I never did. I _had_ thought of watching from my
window to see when she went out, and then following her. But that didn't
seem right, somehow. It would be too much like spying on her. So I just
concluded I'd trust to chance. And luck favored me at last, one morning,
about a week after I'd rung her bell.

"It happened that the night before, Eliza suddenly discovered we were
all out of oatmeal for breakfast, and I promised her I'd get some very
early in the morning, when I went to take my walk. You know, I've found
that on these warm summer days in the city it's much pleasanter to take
a walk in the real early morning than to wait till later in the day,
when it's crowded and hot. And I always used to love walking in the
early morning, up in Northam.

"Well, anyhow, I got up that day about six. I knew that no stores near
here would be open so early, and I decided to walk over toward the other
side of town. It's a sort of poor section there, and the stores often
open up quite early, so that folks can do their marketing before they go
to work. It was a beautiful, cool morning, and I was quite enjoying
myself when--Jan, _what_ do you think?--I looked up, and about half a
block ahead of me was a little black figure with a market-basket,
hurrying along. I _knew_ it was Miss Benedict!

"Can you imagine my surprise--and delight? I suddenly made up my mind
I'd keep behind her, and go into the same store she did. There could
surely be no harm in _that_! And by and by I saw her turn into a little
grocery-shop; and a minute or two after in I walked, went to the
counter, and stood right near her. There was no one in the store beside
ourselves and the grocer. He looked sleepy, and was yawning while he
wrapped up something for her. He asked me to 'Wait a minute, please!'
which, of course, I was only too delighted to do, as it gave me a
perfect right to stand close by my mysterious little neighbor and hear
her speak.

"And it was right there, Janet, that I got the surprise of my life. She
still wore her black veil, and it was so thick that not a bit of her
face could be seen. Her dress was the most old-fashioned thing--it
looked twenty years old, if not more. I don't know what sort of a voice
I had expected to hear, but it was nothing in the least like what I
_did_ hear.

"I can't exactly describe it to you, Jan, but it was the most beautiful
_speaking_ voice I've ever heard in my life! It was soft, and
flute-like, and so--so _appealing_! It somehow went straight to my
heart. It made me feel as if I wanted to take _care_ of Miss Benedict,
somehow, I can't exactly explain it. Even when she was speaking of such
commonplace things as butter and eggs and sugar, it was like--like
_music_!

"Well, in a few moments she had finished, and the grocer packed her
things in her basket, and she went away. I had to stay, of course, and
get my oatmeal, and I didn't see her again. But being so close to her
and hearing that lovely voice had changed my whole feeling about her. At
first, I had just been interested and awfully _curious_ about the whole
mysterious affair, and, I'll confess, just a wee bit repelled by the
account of the queer little lady and the strange way she lived. I wanted
to know the explanation of the mystery, but I didn't particularly want
to know _her_. But after that, I felt different,--sort of bewitched by
that beautiful voice. I wanted to _help_ that Miss Benedict. I wanted to
_do_ something for her, or try to make her happier, or--or _something_,
I couldn't quite explain what. And I wanted--oh, so much!--to see her
_face_, and know what she was like, and more about _herself_. Can you
understand, Jan?"

"Indeed, I can. But do go on. Did you ever meet her again?"

"No, I didn't. But I've seen--and heard--something else that's strange,
more strange than all the rest!"

"Tell me, quick!" demanded Janet.

"Two nights ago, I sat here by the window. It was too hot to turn on the
light, but it was very dark outside. Presently I heard footsteps in the
Benedict garden. They were light, quick footsteps, and sounded exactly
as if some one were running about, or skipping and jumping. First I
thought it must be a big dog, for it couldn't possibly have been either
one of those two old ladies, running and skipping that way! And then I
heard a soft humming, as if some one were singing a tune half under the
breath. And then, very soon after, a door opened, and a voice called
out, very softly, 'Come in, now!' And after that all was quiet. Now,
Janet McNeil, I'm simply positive there's _some one else_ in that house
beside the two old ladies,--some one who hasn't been seen yet. What do
you make of it?"

"You must be right," replied Janet, thoughtfully. "It _couldn't_ be
either of them running about in the garden in the dark and humming a
tune. It isn't at all what they'd be likely to do. I think it must be
some one else, more--more _human_ and natural, somehow. And younger,
too. But what on _earth_ do they all keep so shut up for, and act as if
they were afraid to be seen! It's the queerest thing I ever heard of.
You certainly _have_ moved next door to a 'dark-brown mystery,' Marcia!"

For the ensuing hour the girls embroidered steadily and discussed
"Benedict's Folly" and its inmates in all their peculiar phases. But,
turn and twist it as they might, they could find no answer to the
riddle. After a while, Janet changed the subject.

"By the way, Marcia, how are you coming on with your violin practice?
Have you begun taking lessons here yet? You know that was one of the
principal things you folks moved to the city for,--so that you could
study with the best teachers."

"Yes, I've begun with Professor Hardwick," said Marcia, "and I've
practised quite hard lately. It's about all I had to do. He says I've
made some progress already."

"Oh, _do_ get your violin and play some for me!" begged Janet. "I'm
just starving for some good music. I haven't heard any since you left
Northam."

So Marcia obligingly went to the parlor and brought back her violin.
When she had tuned it and tucked it lovingly under her chin, she sat
down in the window-seat and ran her bow over the strings in a shower of
liquid melody. For one so young she played astonishingly well. Janet
listened, breathless, absorbed.

"Marcia dear, you _have_ improved!" she exclaimed, as her chum stopped
for a moment. "Now do play my favorite!" Marcia laid her bow on the
strings once more, and slipped into the tender reverie of the
"Träumerei." But before it was half finished, Janet, wide-eyed with
astonishment, laid her hand on Marcia's arm.

"Look!" she breathed. Marcia followed the direction of her gaze, and
turned to stare out of the window at the house opposite. And this is
what she saw:

The shutter of a window on the top floor had been pushed partly open,
and a face looked out,--a face with big, appealing eyes, and a frame of
golden, curling hair falling all about it. Straight over at the two in
the window it gazed, eager, absorbed, delighted. And then suddenly, as
it detected their own interested stare, it withdrew, and the shutter was
softly closed.

The two girls drew a long breath and gazed at each other.

"Janet,--_what_ did I tell you! There _is_ some one else in that house!"
cried Marcia.

"I guess you're right!" admitted Janet, quieter, but no less excited.
"But do you realize who that third person _is_, Marcia Brett? It isn't
an old lady; it's some one just about our own age--it's a young
_girl_!"




CHAPTER III

THE GATE OPENS


For the two ensuing days, Marcia and Janet, tense with excitement,
discussed the most recently discovered inmate of "Benedict's Folly," and
watched incessantly for another glimpse of the face behind the shutter.
How was it, they constantly demanded of each other, that a girl of
fourteen or fifteen had come to be shut up in the dreary old place? Was
she a prisoner there? Was she a relative, friend, or servant? Was she
free to come and go?

To the latter question they unanimously voted "No!" How could she be
aught else but a prisoner when she was never seen going in or out, was
forced to take her exercise after nightfall in the dark garden, and was
kept constantly behind closed shutters? No girl of that age in her
right mind could deliberately _choose_ a life like that!

"Do you suppose she has always lived there?" queried Marcia, for the
twentieth time. And as Janet could answer it no better than herself, she
propounded another question:

"And why do you suppose she opened the shutter and looked out, seeming
so delighted, when I played, and then drew in again so quickly when we
noticed her? Is _she_ afraid of being seen, too?"

"Evidently," said Janet. "She must be as full of mystery as the rest of
them. And yet--I _can't_, somehow, feel that she _is_ like them; she's
so sweet and young and--oh, _you_ know what I mean!"

Of course she knew, but it didn't help them in the least to solve this
latest phase of their mystery. Finally Marcia, who still clung a bit
shyly to the fairy lore of her earlier years, declared:

"I believe she's a regular _Cinderella_, kept there to do all the hard
work of the place by those queer old ladies, and I shouldn't be a bit
surprised if she's down in the kitchen this minute, cleaning out the
ashes of the stove! Come, Jan, let's go for a walk, and when we come
back I'll play on the violin by the window. Maybe our little
_Cinderella_ will peep out again!"

The two girls put on their hats and strolled out for their usual
afternoon walk and treat of ice-cream soda. But they had gone no farther
from their own door than the length of the Benedict brick wall when they
were suddenly brought to a halt in front of the closed gate by hearing a
sound on the other side of it. It was a sound indicative of some one's
struggling attempt to open it--the click of a key turning and turning in
the lock and the futile rattling of the iron knob. And then the sound of
a voice murmuring:

"Oh, dear! What _shall_ I do? I can't get this open!"

"Janet," whispered Marcia, "that's _not_ the voice of Miss Benedict! I
_know_ it! I believe it's _Cinderella_, and she's trying to run away!
What shall we do--stay here?"

"No," Janet whispered back. "Let's just stroll on a little way, and then
turn back. We can see what happens then without seeming to be watching."

They walked on quickly for a number of yards, and then turned to
approach the gate again. Even as they did so they saw it open, and out
stepped a little figure.

It was not Miss Benedict! The slim, trim little girlish form was clad in
plain dark clothes of a slightly unfamiliar cut. But the face was the
one that had appeared in the upper window, and the thick golden curls
were surmounted by a black velvet tam-o'-shanter. On her arm she carried
a small market-basket, and her eyes had a bewildered, almost frightened,
look.

In their excited interest Marcia and Janet had, quite unconsciously,
stopped short where they were and waited to see which way their
_Cinderella_ would turn. But though they stood so for an appreciable
moment, she turned neither way, and only stood, her back to the gate,
gazing uncertainly to the right and left. And then, perceiving them, she
seemed to take a sudden resolution, and turned to them appealingly.

"Oh, please, _could_ you direct me how to find this?" she asked, holding
out a slip of paper. Marcia hurried to her side and read the written
address. And when she had read it, she realized that it was the little
grocery-shop on the other side of town where she had once encountered
Miss Benedict.

"Why, certainly!" she cried. "You walk over five blocks in that
direction, then turn to your left and down three. You can't miss it;
it's right next to a shoemaker's place."

The child looked more bewildered than ever, and her eyes strayed to the
busy street-crossing near which they stood, crowded with hurrying trucks
and automobiles.

"Thank you!" she faltered. "Do I go this way?" And then, with sudden
candor, "You see, I'm strange in these streets." Her voice was clear and
pretty, but her accent markedly un-American. Both girls half
consciously noted it.

"See here," said Marcia; "would you care to have us take you there?
We're not going in any special direction, and I've been there before."

An infinitely relieved expression came over the girl's face. "Oh,
_would_ you be so kind? I'm just--just scared to death on these
streets!"

They turned to accompany her, one on each side, and piloted her safely
across the busy avenue. Then, in the quiet stretch of the next block,
they proceeded together in complete and embarrassing silence.

It was a silence that Marcia and Janet had fully expected their
companion to break--possibly to reveal some reason for her errand and
her strangeness in the streets. They themselves hesitated to say much,
for fear of seeming curious or anxious to force her confidence. But she
said not a word. The strain at last became too much for Janet.

"I don't blame you for feeling nervous in these city streets," she
began. "I'm a country girl myself, and I act like a scared rabbit
whenever I go out alone here." The girl turned to her with a little
confiding gesture.

"I've never been out in them alone before," she said. Then there was
another silence during which Marcia and Janet both searched frantically
in their minds for something else to say. But it was the girl herself
who broke the silence the second time.

"Thank you for your music the other day," she said, turning to Marcia.
"I heard you. I often hear you and listen."

"Oh, I'm so glad you liked it!" cried Marcia. "Do you care for music?"

"I adore it," she replied simply.

"Look here!" exclaimed Marcia, suddenly; "how did you know it was I that
played the violin?"

"Because I've watched you often--through the slats!"

Marcia and Janet exchanged glances. So the watching was not all on
_their_ side of the fence! Here was a revelation!

"That last thing you played the other day--will you--will you tell me
what it was?" went on their new companion, shyly.

"Why, that was Schumann's 'Träumerei,'" answered Marcia. "I love it,
don't you?"

"Yes but I never heard it before; that is, I never _remember_ hearing
it, and yet--somehow I seemed to _know_ it. I can't think why. I don't
understand. It's as if I'd _dreamed_ it, I think."

Marcia and Janet again exchanged glances. What a strange child this was,
who talked of having "dreamed" music that was quite familiar to almost
every one.

"Perhaps you heard it at a concert," suggested Janet.

"I never went to a concert," she replied, much to their amazement. And
then, perceiving their surprise, she added:

"You see, I've always lived 'way off in the country, in just a little
village--till now."

"Oh--yes," answered Janet, pretending enlightenment, though in truth she
and Marcia were more bewildered than ever.

But by this time they had reached the little grocery-shop, and all
proceeded inside while their new friend made her purchases. These she
read off slowly from a slip of paper, and the grocer packed them in her
basket. But when it came to paying for them and making change, she
became entangled in a fresh puzzle.

"I think you said these eggs were a shilling?" she ventured to the
grocer.

"Shilling--no! I said they were a quarter," he retorted impatiently.

"A quarter?" she queried, and turned questioning eyes to her two
friends.

"He means this," said Marcia, picking out a twenty-five-cent piece from
the change the girl held.

"Oh, thank you! I don't understand this American money," she explained.
And Marcia and Janet added another query to their rapidly growing mental
list.

On the way back home, however, she grew silent again, and though the
girls chatted back and forth about quite impersonal matters,--the
crowded streets, the warm weather, the sights they passed,--she was not
to be drawn into the conversation. And the nearer they drew to their
destination, the more depressed she appeared to become. At last they
reached the gate.

"Shall you be going out again to-morrow?" ventured Marcia. "If so, we
will go with you, if you care to have us, till you get used to the
streets."

The girl gave her a sudden, pleased glance. "I--I don't know," she said.
"You see, Miss Benedict hurt her ankle a day or two ago, and she can't
get around much, so--so I'm doing this for her. If she wants me to go
to-morrow, I will. I'd be _so_ glad to go with you. How shall I let you
know?"

"Just hang a white handkerchief to your shutter before you go, and we'll
see it. We'll watch for it!" cried Marcia, inventing the signal on the
spur of the moment. And then, impetuously, she added:

"My name is Marcia Brett, and this is Janet McNeil. Won't you tell us
yours, if we're to be friends?"

"I'm Cecily Marlowe," she answered, "and I'm _so_ glad to know you." As
she spoke she was fumbling with the big key in the lock of the gate, and
as the latter swung open, she turned once more to face them, with a
little pent-up sob: "I don't know why I'm here--and I'm _so_ lonely!"
Then, frightened at having revealed so much, she turned quickly away and
shut the gate.

As they listened to her footsteps retreating up the path and the closing
of the front door Marcia and Janet turned to each other, a thousand
questions burning on their tongues. But all they could exclaim in one
breath was:

"Did you _ever_!"




CHAPTER IV

THE BACKWARD GLANCE


The next twenty-four hours were spent in delightful speculation. So her
name was Cecily Marlowe! Was she any relation of Miss Benedict?
"Marlowe" and "Benedict" were certainly dissimilar enough.

"But then she might be a relation on Miss Benedict's mother's side,"
suggested Marcia.

"Does it sound likely when you think what she said just at the
last--that she didn't know why she was there?" replied Janet,
scornfully. "She couldn't be in doubt about it if she were a _relation_,
either come on a visit or there to stay!" Which argument settled _that_
question.

"But where do you suppose she has come from?" marveled Marcia. "She said
she'd always lived in a little country village, and she didn't know a
thing about American money. She's foreign--that's certain. Even her
clothes and her way of speaking show it. But from where?"

"Did you notice that she said 'shilling'?" suggested Janet. "That shows
she must be English. She _looks_ English. Now will you tell me how she
could get 'way over here from England and not know why she had come?"

"It sounds as if she might have been kidnapped," said Marcia. "Why,
Janet! this is precisely like a mystery in a book. Do you _realize_ it?
And here we are living right next door to it! It's too good to be true!"

Janet's mind had, however, gone off on another tack. "I can't understand
that remark she made about the music. 'Träumerei' is certainly about as
well known as any piece of classic music. She said she never remembered
hearing it, and yet it seems somehow familiar to her. Can you make
anything out of _that_?"

Marcia couldn't. "Maybe it's all just a notion," she suggested
helplessly. "Suppose I play some on the violin here in our window right
now. She seems to enjoy it so. And maybe she'll open her shutter
again."

So they sat on the window-seat, and Marcia played her very best,
including the "Träumerei," but no golden head appeared from behind the
shutter that afternoon.

"Never mind," said Janet. "We'll see her to-morrow, most likely. Perhaps
she's busy downstairs now."

"But isn't she the prettiest little thing!" mused Marcia, reminiscently.
"The loveliest big blue eyes, and curly golden hair, and such a
_trusting_ look in her face, somehow! It went right down to the very
bottom of my heart, if it doesn't sound silly to put it that way."

"Yes, I know," agreed Janet. "I felt the same way. But doesn't it strike
you queer that--"

"Oh, the whole thing's queer!" interrupted Marcia. "The queerest I ever
heard of. I guess you agree with me now, Janet, that I had a secret
worth talking about in 'Benedict's Folly.' But let's wait till to-morrow
and see what happens."

The morrow came and went, however, and nothing happened at all. Hour
after hour the two girls watched for the signal of the white
handkerchief, but every shuttered window of the old mansion remained
blank. Neither did any one go in or out of the gate. Late in the
afternoon Marcia played again at the window, but the sweetest music
called forth not a single sign from behind the walls of the house next
door. Janet had but one solution to offer.

"They probably didn't need any marketing done to-day, so she naturally
didn't go out."

"But why couldn't she have at least looked out a moment from her
window?" cried Marcia, disconsolately. "Surely that would have been easy
to do, when she said she cared so much for the music. She must have
_known_ I was playing just for her!"

"She may have been somewhere in the house where she couldn't. You can't
tell, and oughtn't to blame her without knowing," declared Janet,
defending the conduct of the mysterious Cecily. "To-morrow we'll see her
again, no doubt."

On the morrow her prophecy was fulfilled. They did see her again, but
under circumstances so peculiar that they were quite dumfounded.

All the morning they watched and waited in vain for some signal from the
upper window. But none came. And the main part of the afternoon passed
in precisely the same way. They sat very conspicuously in their own
window-seat, so that there could be no doubt in Cecily's mind about
their being at home. Marcia even did a little violin practice while they
waited. And still there was no sign. Suddenly, about five o'clock, Janet
clutched at her chum's arm.

"Look!" she cried.

Marcia looked, and down the path from the front door of the strange
house she saw Cecily, dressed to go out, approaching the gate. It was
plain that she was bound on another marketing expedition for the basket
hung from her arm.

"_Well!_ what do you make of that!" exclaimed Marcia in bewilderment.
"Did she signal to us?"

"No, she didn't," returned Janet. "I've watched every minute. She
_couldn't_ have forgotten it. But, do you know, there may be some very
good reason why she didn't--or couldn't--and perhaps she's hoping we'll
see her, and be on hand outside, anyway, as we promised."

"But she _must_ have seen us sitting in the window," argued Marcia. "She
might at least have looked up and waved her hand, or nodded, or
smiled--or something!"

Cecily, meanwhile, was fumbling with the lock of the big old gate, which
seemed, as on a former occasion, to give her a great deal of trouble.

"Come," cried Janet to Marcia. "We'll just about have time to catch her
if we hurry." And seizing their hats, the girls hastened downstairs.
Their front door closed behind them just as Cecily came abreast of them.
What happened next was like a blow in the face!

[Illustration: Cecily Marlowe passed them by without a look]

They had started forward, each with a friendly smile, expecting their
new companion to meet them in similar fashion. To their amazement,
Cecily Marlowe, after the first sudden look into their faces, dropped
her eyes, and passed them by without a glance, precisely as if they were
utter strangers to her.

Both girls gasped, stared at her departing figure till she turned the
corner, and then into each other's faces.

"The ungrateful little thing!" Marcia presently exploded. "If that
wasn't the 'cut direct,' I've never seen it before!"

"An unmistakable way of telling us to mind our own business!" even Janet
had to admit. "How humiliating! And yet--"

"Yet--what?" demanded Marcia, indignantly. "You're surely not going to
try to excuse such inexcusable conduct as _that_! I see very plainly
what's happened. She's thought it over and decided that we were
meddlesome and just trying to _push_ an acquaintance with her, and she
thinks she's a little too exclusive for that kind of thing, and the
simple remedy was to 'cut us dead'!" Marcia was quite out of breath when
she finished this summing up.

"It _does_ look like it," Janet admitted. "But somehow, even yet, I
can't feel that she _wanted_ to do it--of her own accord, I mean."

But Marcia couldn't see it in that light. They discussed the question
hotly, still standing on the front stoop of the apartment. So long, in
fact, did they argue it back and forth, turning and twisting the sorry
little occurrence, viewing it in every possible light, that before they
realized it, Cecily was returning, her errands accomplished. How she had
managed to find her way and cross the streets in safety, they could only
conjecture.

To reach her own gate, she had to pass directly by where they were
standing, and they saw her approaching down the block.

"Here she comes," muttered Marcia. "Now, let's stand right here and
watch her as she goes by. She can't _help_ but see us. We'll give her
one more chance to do the proper thing."

And so they waited, breathless, expectant, while the girl came rapidly
on, her eyes cast down, watching the pavement. But even when she was
quite in front of them, she did not once look up, and without comment
their gaze followed her retreating figure to the gate.

As she fitted the big key and swung the gate open, they were just about
to turn to each other in angry impatience when something else happened.

Cecily Marlowe turned her head and looked back at them for one long,
tense moment. It was such a wistful, imploring look, a gaze so full of
appeal for forgiveness, so plainly in contrast with her recent conduct,
that their hearts melted at once.

Simultaneously they waved their hands and smiled at her, and she smiled
back in return, the most adorable little smile in the world, full of
trust and confidence and utter friendliness.

Then she hurried in and closed the gate, leaving her two new friends
outside more bewildered than ever.




CHAPTER V

THE HANDKERCHIEF IN THE WINDOW


The next day was spent by the two girls in an expedition to one of the
near-by ocean beaches with Aunt Minerva. Under ordinary circumstances it
was a treat that would have delighted their hearts. But, as matters
stood, they only chafed with impatience to be back at their bedroom
window, watching the house next door. The date for the trip, however,
had been set some time before, and Aunt Minerva would have thought it
very strange if they had begged off, for such flimsy reason as they
could have offered.

The day after found them again on watch, though what they expected to
see they couldn't have told. It was plain that, in spite of appearances,
Cecily Marlowe's friendly feeling toward them was undiminished. The
charming backward smile had indicated _that_ unmistakably. But how to
make it fit in with her refusal to signal and her forbidding conduct
they could not understand, and the mystery kept them in a constant
ferment of surmise.

But even as they sat discussing it next morning, their fancy-work lying
unheeded in their laps, they looked out suddenly with a simultaneous
gasp of astonishment and delight. There was a tiny white handkerchief
attached to the shutter in the upper window and fluttering in the
breeze!

"It's the signal--our signal!" cried Marcia. "Now what shall we
do?--show that we've seen it by waving something? Here's my red silk
scarf."

"No," decided Janet. "Perhaps she'd rather not have us do anything that
might attract attention. Let's go right down to the street, as we said
we would, and see if she's there."

They lost not a moment's time in reaching their front steps. But there
was no sign of Cecily till they had come abreast of the Benedict gate.
This they discovered ajar, and two blue eyes peeping out of a narrow
crack. As they came in sight, there was a smothered exclamation, "Oh!
I'm so glad!" The gate opened wider, and Cecily stood before them.

"You are _so_ good!" she began at once, in a low voice, stretching out
both hands to them. "I was afraid you--you wouldn't come. I left the
signal there almost all day yesterday--"

"We were away!" cried Marcia, promptly. "I'm _so_ sorry. We went--"

"Oh, then--oh, it's all right!" breathed Cecily, in relief. "I was sure
you were angry at--at the way--I acted."

It was on the tip of Marcia's tongue to demand why she _had_ acted so,
but she refrained. And Cecily hurried on:

"I--I just had to signal for you. I--we are in great trouble--and I
don't know what to do."

"Oh, what _is_ it?" cried both girls together.

"Miss--Miss Benedict is very ill," she continued hesitatingly. "She--she
fell and hurt her ankle the other day, and--it's been getting worse
ever since. She's in bed--suffering great pain both yesterday and
to-day. It's terribly swelled--"

"But why doesn't she send for a doctor?" interrupted Janet, hastily.
"She _ought_ to have one if it's as bad as that."

"I asked her that, too, yesterday, and she only said: 'No, no! I cannot,
must not have a doctor, child!' And when I asked what I could do for
her, she answered, 'I don't know, I'm sure!' So there she lies--just
suffering. And--and I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I
signaled to you. You are my only friends--in all this city!"

There was something infinitely pathetic about the way she brought out
this last statement. It touched the hearts of both her listeners, and
because of it they inwardly forgave her, once and for all, for any
action of hers that had offended them. And they had the good sense not
to comment on the strangeness of Miss Benedict's behavior.

"Well, if she won't have a doctor, we must think what else there is to
be done," began Janet, practically.

"I wish you'd let me bring Aunt Minerva in to see her," said Marcia.
"She hurt her ankle just like that, two years ago, and she'd know
exactly what--"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Cecily, starting forward. "Miss Benedict would not
want that--does not want to see any one. Please--_please_ do not even
_mention_ to your aunt anything about her--or me! Miss Benedict would
not wish it."

The request was certainly very peculiar, but the girls were able to
conceal their surprise, great as it was. "Very well," said Marcia,
soothingly. "If you'd rather have it that way, we certainly won't speak
of it. But I've just had another idea. I remember Aunt Minerva had a
certain kind of salve that she used for her ankle, and she kept it
tightly bandaged on. It did her lots of good--cured her, in fact. Now I
believe I could get that salve at a drug-store here--"

"Oh, _could_ you?" exclaimed Cecily, in immense relief. "Let us go at
once."

"But you needn't trouble to go," said Marcia. "We won't be ten minutes
and will come right back with it."

"I prefer to go," replied Cecily Marlowe, with such an air of quiet
finality that neither dared to question it. All three started out, after
Cecily had locked the gate, and proceeded to the nearest drug-store.
Here Marcia made the purchase, and paid for it from the change in her
own hand-bag. But when they were outside the store Cecily turned to her
gravely:

"I have a little English money of my own, but I did not like to offer it
in the shop. If you will--will tell me how much the salve cost--in
shillings--I will give it to you." And she held out several English
shillings to Marcia.

"Oh, you needn't do that! I'm glad to be able to think of something to
do for Miss Benedict. It's such a little matter--"

"Please!" reiterated Cecily. "I wish to tell her I bought it myself."

"Why?" cried Marcia, and then the next moment wished she could recall a
question that seemed to border on the personal.

"Because I--I dare not tell her I have--have been talking to you!"
hesitated Cecily, in an unusual burst of candor. And after that
revelation they all walked back to the gate in an uneasy silence.

When they stood again in front of the blank barrier to the mysterious
house, Cecily turned to Marcia.

"I love your music," she said. "I always listen to it whenever you play.
I knew you had been playing--just for me--these last few days, and I
wanted to look out of my window and--and wave to you, but--I must not. I
am always there when you play--listening. I wanted you to know it."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Marcia, delightedly. "I _hoped_ it would please
you. I'll play more than ever now. I'll do all my practising there,
too."

"Cecily," said Janet, abruptly, venturing on personal ground for the
first time, "you are very lonely there, in that big house, with no other
young folks, aren't you?"

"Yes," answered Cecily, speaking very low, and glancing in an uncertain
way at the gate.

"Well, why don't you ask--er--Miss Benedict, if you couldn't run in and
visit us once in a while, or go out for a walk with us sometimes? Surely
she wouldn't object to that."

"Oh, no, no!" cried Cecily, hastily. "I'd--oh, _how_ I'd love to,
but--but--it wouldn't do,--it wouldn't be allowed! No, I must not."
There was nothing more to be said.

"At least, then," added Marcia, "you'll let us know if you need anything
else--you'll signal to us?"

"Yes," said Cecily, "I'll do that." She got out the key, and unlocked
the gate. Then she faced them with a sudden, passionate sob.

"You are so wonderfully good to me! I love you--both! You're all I have
to--care for!"

Then the gate was shut, and they heard her footsteps fleeing up the
pathway.




CHAPTER VI

CECILY REVEALS HERSELF


That night the two girls held a council of war.

"It's perfectly plain to me," said Marcia, "that that poor little thing
is right under Miss Benedict's thumb. I think the way she's treated is
scandalous--not allowed to go out, or speak to, or associate with, any
one! And scared out of her wits all the time, evidently. What on earth
is she there for, anyhow?"

Janet scorned to reply to the old, unanswerable question. Instead she
remarked:

"She's breaking her heart about it, too. I can see that. And, Marcia,
wasn't it strange--what she said just at the last--that she loved us,
and that we were all she had to care for! Where _can_ all her relatives
and family be? Miss Benedict certainly can't be a relative, for Cecily
calls her 'Miss.' To think of that lovely little thing without a soul
to care for her--except ourselves. Why, Marcia, it's--it's amazing! But
the main question now is what are we going to do about it? We _must_
help her somehow!"

"I know what _I'm_ going to do about it," replied Marcia, decisively.
"I'm going to tell Aunt Minerva about it, and see if she can't--"

"Wait a minute," Janet reminded her. "You forget that Cecily fairly
begged us not to mention anything about her to any one."

"That's so," said Marcia, looking blank. "What _are_ we going to do
then?"

"There's only one thing I can think of," answered Janet, slowly. "Miss
Benedict may forbid Cecily to meet or speak to _us_, but she can't
forbid us meeting and speaking to Cecily, can she? So why can't we just
watch for Cecily to come out, and then go and join her? She can't stop
us--she can't help herself; and between you and me, I think she'll be
only too delighted!"

"Good enough!" laughed Marcia. "But what an ogre that Miss Benedict must
be! I'm horribly disappointed about her. After I heard her speak that
time I was sure she must be lovely. It doesn't seem possible that any
one with such a wonderful, sympathetic voice could be so--so downright
hateful to a dear little thing like Cecily."

"I must say it seems just horrid!" cried Janet, vehemently.

That night, after darkness had fallen, the two girls, settling
themselves without a light at their open window, heard, as Marcia had
once before described, the sound of running feet in the garden beyond
the wall. This time there was no doubt in their minds about it. It was
certainly Cecily, taking a little exercise, probably on the deserted
path.

"I wonder why she _runs_," marveled Marcia. "_I_ shouldn't feel like
running around there all by myself."

"I think I can understand, though," added Janet. "She's cooped up all
day in that dreary old place, and probably has to keep awfully quiet.
I'd go crazy if I were shut in like that. I'd feel like--like jumping
hurdles when I got out of doors. And she's a country girl, too,
remember. Get your violin, Marcia, and play something. I know it will
comfort her to know we're near by and thinking of her."

So Marcia brought her violin, and out into the darkness of the night
floated the dreamy, tender melody of the "Träumerei." The romance of the
situation appealed to her, and she played it as she never had before.

At the first notes the running footsteps ceased, and there was silence
in the garden. When the music ended, they thought they could distinguish
a soft little sound, half sigh, half sob, from the velvet blackness
below; but they could not be sure. And a little later came the click of
a closing door.

Marcia put down her violin. "The lonely, lonely little thing!" she
exclaimed, half under her breath.

       *       *       *       *       *

For two days thereafter they maintained a constant, but fruitless, vigil
over "Benedict's Folly." Cecily did not appear, either at her window or
on a marketing expedition. Neither was there any sound of her footsteps
in the garden at night.

The girls began to worry. Could it be that Miss Benedict had discovered
the truth about the remedy for her sprained ankle and had, perhaps, shut
Cecily up in close confinement, or even sent her away altogether? They
were by this time at a loss as to just what to think of that mysterious
lady.

On the third afternoon, however, to their intense relief, they saw
Cecily emerge from the house and walk toward the gate, with the
market-basket on her arm. It took them just about a minute and a half to
reach the street.

Cecily came abreast of their own door-step in due time, her eyes cast
down as usual; but they were waiting in the vestibule, and she did not
see them.

She was well in advance, but still in sight, when they came down the
steps and strolled in the same direction. It was not till they had
turned the corner that they raced after her, and at last, breathless,
caught up with her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a little start; "I--I did not expect to see
you to-day. I--you mustn't come with me!" In spite of her words,
however, it was evident that she was really delighted by their
unexpected appearance.

"Look here, Cecily," began Marcia, "why can't we join you when you go to
market or are doing your errands?"

"Oh, that would be lovely!" answered Cecily--"only Miss Benedict usually
asks me when I come in whether I have met or spoken to any one, and--I
can't tell what isn't true!"

Here was a poser! The girls looked crestfallen.

"No--you can't, of course," hesitated Janet.

"And besides that," went on Cecily, "this is the last time I shall go,
anyhow, because she's very much better now,--the salve helped her ankle
very much,--and she says she's going out herself after this. I don't
expect to get out again."

There was a moment of horrified silence after this blow. Then Janet, no
longer able to endure the bewilderment, burst out:

"Cecily dear, please forgive us if we seem to be prying into your
affairs. It's only because we think so much of you. But who _is_ Miss
Benedict, and what is she to you?"

"I don't know!" said Cecily slowly.

"You _don't know_!" they gasped in chorus.

"No, I really don't. It must seem very strange to you, and it does to
me. Miss Benedict is a perfect stranger to me, and no relation, so far
as I know. I never saw or heard of her before I came here."

"But why _are_ you here then?" demanded Marcia.

"I--don't know. It's all a mystery to me. But I'm so lonely I've cried
myself to sleep many a night."

"Won't you tell us all about it?" begged Marcia. "We're your friends,
Cecily,--you say the only ones you have,--and we don't ask just out of
curiosity, but because we're interested in you, and--and love you."

"Well, I will then," agreed the girl, as they walked along. "I'll just
tell you how it all happened. Ever since I can remember anything, I've
lived in Cranby, a little village in England. Mother and I lived there
together. We never went anywhere, not even up to London, because she was
never very strong. Father was dead; he died when I was a tiny baby, she
told me. We just had a happy, quiet life together, we two.

"Well, about the beginning of this year, Mother was suddenly taken very,
very ill. I don't know what was the matter, but I hardly had time to
call in a neighbor and then bring the doctor." Cecily paused and choked
down a rising sob.

"She--she just slipped away before we knew it," she went on, very low.
Marcia pressed her hand in wordless sympathy. Presently Cecily
continued:

"Afterward, the neighbor, Mrs. Waddington, told me that while I was
fetching the doctor Mother had begged her to see that, if she didn't
recover, I should be taken over to New York, and left with a family
named Benedict, and she had Mrs. Waddington write down the address. But
just then Mother grew so much worse that she couldn't explain why I was
to be taken there, or what they were to me or I to them. After it was
all over we searched everywhere, hoping to find some papers or letters
or something that would tell, but we found nothing. So Mrs. Waddington
kept me with her for two or three months. Then a friend of hers, a Mrs.
Bidwell, was going to the States, and it was arranged that I should go
in her care. About two weeks before we sailed Mrs. Bidwell wrote to the
Benedict family, saying she was bringing me to New York.

"So we sailed from Liverpool, and the very day we landed, Mrs. Bidwell
brought me here. We rang the old bell at the gate, and then waited and
waited. I thought no one would ever come. But at last the gate opened,
and Miss Benedict stood there in her hat and veil.

"She acted very strangely from the first. Mrs. Bidwell told her all
about me, and she never said a single word, but only shook her head
several times. I thought she was certainly going to refuse to take me
in, her manner was so odd. After she had stood thinking a long time she
suddenly said to me, 'Come, then!' and to Mrs. Bidwell, 'I thank you!'
And she led me inside, followed by the driver with my box, and shut the
gate." Cecily stopped short, as if that were the end of the story.

"Oh, but--go on!" stammered Marcia, quivering with impatience.

"But I must do my marketing now," said Cecily. "Here we are at the shop.
I'll tell you the rest when we come out."




CHAPTER VII

SURPRISES ALL AROUND


"How long have you been in New York?" began Janet, when at last they
emerged from the little shop.

"About two months," said Cecily. "And I've lived in that place all this
time, and have not known why. Miss Benedict has never explained. She
acts toward me as if I were a lodger, or--or some one she allowed to
stay there for reasons of her own, but didn't particularly want to have
about. She's kind to me, but never--friendly. Sometimes she looks at me
in the strangest way--I can't imagine what she's thinking about. But why
does she live like this?" and she turned inquiring eyes on the girls.

"I'm sure _we_ don't know!" exclaimed Marcia. "We only wonder about it.
The house seems to be all shut up."

"Why, it _is_!" Cecily enlightened them. "And it makes it so dark and
gloomy! There is lovely furniture in the drawing-room, but it is all
covered over with some brown stuff--even the pictures. And most of the
other rooms are not used at all--nothing on the ground floor. I eat down
in the basement, and my bedroom is on the top floor--where I looked out
that time. I have never been in any of the other bedrooms except Miss
Benedict's, when her ankle was bad."

"But what do you do with yourself all day?" asked Janet.

"I keep my room in order, and help Miss Benedict whenever she lets me.
Of course, she prepares all the food herself, but in such a pretty,
dainty way. But there are a good many hours when the time hangs so heavy
on my hands. Sometimes she lets me dust the rooms on the ground floor.
She keeps everything very, very neat, even if it is all covered up and
never used. The rest of the time I sit in my room and read the few books
I brought with me, and tell myself long stories, or listen to your
music. I dare not now even peep through the shutters. Once I opened
them, when you were playing, but Miss Benedict came in just then and
forbade me to do it again."

"Doesn't she ever let you go out and take a walk or get a little
exercise?" questioned Marcia.

"No, the only times I have gone out have been just lately, when her
ankle has been so bad. At night, after it is dark, she lets me run about
the garden a bit, but never in the daytime."

"But how did she find out about your knowing _us_?" broke in Janet.

"Why, of course I told her--that first time after you were so good to
me--all about meeting you, and how lovely you were to me. I thought
she'd be so glad I'd found such nice friends. But she looked so
queer--almost frightened, and she said: 'You must not speak to them
again. It was kind of them to help you, but you must not encourage them
in any way. Remember, child!' And I was only trying to obey her when I
passed you without looking up the second time I went out."

"Cecily," said Marcia, suddenly, "what does Miss Benedict look like,
anyhow? Do you ever see her without that veil? Isn't she very old and
plain?"

"Why, no," answered Cecily, simply. "She's very beautiful."

"_What!_" they gasped in chorus.

"Yes, I was surprised too, that day I came. After the driver had brought
my box into the hall (she wouldn't let him take it any farther), and she
had shut the door behind him and we were left alone, she seemed to--to
hesitate, but at last she raised her hands and took off her bonnet and
veil. I don't know what I expected, but I was surprised to see such a
lovely face. Her hair is gray, almost white, and so soft and wavy. And
yet she has rosy cheeks, and white teeth, and the most beautiful big
gray eyes. And her voice is very sweet, too. Do you know, I believe if
she'd only _let_ me, I could just love her, but she holds me off as if
she were somehow _afraid_ of me. It's all very strange."

The girls were completely nonplussed by this latest bit of information,
and found it hard to couple Cecily's attractive picture with the little
black-robed and veiled figure that they knew as Miss Benedict. The voice
alone tallied, and Marcia recounted how she had once met Miss Benedict
in the little grocery-shop. Suddenly, however, she was struck by a new
thought, and demanded:

"But how about the other one?"

Cecily opened her eyes wide. "Other one?" she queried. "Oh, you mean the
other person in the house?"

"Why, yes," said Marcia. "The other old lady who sits in the room on the
second floor."

"Oh, _is_ it an old lady?" inquired Cecily, in surprise.

"Why, of course! Didn't you know it?" exclaimed Marcia.

"I knew there was _some_ one in there--some invalid. For Miss Benedict
has always warned me to be very quiet in going by that door, because
some one was ill in there. But she never told me who it was, nor
anything more about her. She always waits on her herself. Even when her
ankle was hurting her so, she would drag herself out of bed many times a
day to go into that room. But tell me, how did _you_ know there was an
old lady in there?"

Then Marcia recounted what she had seen on the night the wind tore open
the shutter. "How strange this all is," she ended, "that Miss Benedict
should never tell you who this person is! Why do you suppose she is
keeping it a secret?"

As this was a problem none of them could solve, they could only
conjecture vainly about it as they walked along. But by this time they
had approached within a block of the house itself, and before they
turned the corner once more they all unconsciously halted.

"Cecily," said Marcia, suddenly inspired with a bright idea. "I have the
grandest scheme! If Miss Benedict is going to do the marketing after
this, perhaps we won't see you again for some time. But I've a plan by
which we can _hear_ from each other as often as we like. You take a walk
in the garden every night, don't you?"

"No, not always," answered Cecily. "Miss Benedict allows me to, but
often I don't care to. It's so dark and--and lonesome."

"Well, after this, be sure to go out every night. Our window, you know,
is directly over the garden wall, only three stories up. I'm going to
have a long string with a weight attached to it, and fasten it in the
window. Every night, after dark, we'll write a note to you, fasten it to
the string, and drop it down into the garden among the bushes. You can
find it in the dark by feeling for the string, and if you have one
written to us, you can fasten it on, and we'll pull it up. Isn't that a
dandy idea?"

Cecily's eyes sparkled for a moment, but suddenly her face clouded. "Oh,
it--it would be glorious!" she murmured. "Only--I must not. Even if Miss
Benedict doesn't know about it, I know she would forbid it if she did.
So--it would be wrong for me to do it!"

"Oh, Cecily! why should you care?" cried Marcia, impatiently, "And why
should she object to three girls sending little notes to one another? It
would be cruel to forbid that. It isn't really wrong, you know."

"But she isn't cruel to me," Cecily interrupted. "You mustn't think
that. She--well, somehow, I feel she _would_ be nice to me, only
something is holding her back. She isn't a bit cruel. I sometimes feel
as if I could care for her in spite of everything. So I don't want to go
against her wishes."

"Well, then," began Janet, "here's a way out of it. We will write to
_you_ anyway. Miss Benedict can't forbid us to do that, and you needn't
answer at all--needn't even read them, if you don't want to. But we'll
write, nevertheless, and you can't prevent it!"

When Cecily smiled, her face lit up as if touched by a shaft of
sunlight. And she smiled now.

"I don't believe I _ought_ to read them," she said; "but, oh! it would
keep me from being so very lonely. But I must be going back now. I've
been longer than usual. Good-by!"

Cecily was still smiling as she turned away, while Janet and Marcia
stood looking after her, waving farewell to her as she rounded the
corner.




CHAPTER VIII

AT THE END OF THE STRING


It was past midnight, that night, before the two girls could settle
themselves for a wink of sleep. So bewildering had been Cecily's
revelations about herself and Miss Benedict and the conditions in the
mysterious house, that they found inexhaustible food for discussion and
conjecture.

The most interesting question, of course, was the absorbing mystery of
how Cecily came to be there at all.

"Why should her mother have sent her there?" demanded Marcia, for the
twentieth time.

"Perhaps she was a relative," ventured Janet.

"That's perfect nonsense," argued Marcia, "for then Miss Benedict would
surely have acted quite differently. If she had been the most distant
connection, Miss Benedict would surely have told her. No, I should say
she might be the child of a friend that Miss Benedict never cared
particularly about, and yet she doesn't quite like to send her away.
Isn't it a puzzle? But what _do_ you think of Miss Benedict being
_beautiful_! I can't imagine it!"

"And then, too, think of Cecily's not knowing there was another old lady
in the house!" added Janet.

"What a darling Cecily is!" exclaimed Marcia, irrelevantly. "If Miss
Benedict knew how sweet and loyal and obedient Cecily is, she'd be a
little less strict with her, I'm sure. I suppose she doesn't want her to
gossip about what goes on in that queer house. And, by the way, we must
get our string in working order to-morrow. Let's send her other things
beside notes, too--things she'd enjoy."

And until they fell asleep they planned the campaign for lightening the
lonely hours of the girl next door.

[Illustration: "They heard Cecily's light footsteps"]

Next day they jointly wrote a long letter,--telling all about
themselves, their homes, their schools, their studies, and any other
items they thought might interest her,--fastened it to the end of the
string, and dropped it into the dark garden after nightfall. Later they
heard Cecily's light footsteps in the gloom below, and when they pulled
up the string just before they went to bed, the note was gone.

"Well, she's evidently decided that it would be all right for her to
take it," said Janet; "and I'm relieved, even if she doesn't answer. I
can see why she mightn't think it right to do _that_. And now we must
plan to send her something besides, every once in a while. I should
think she'd just die of lonesomeness in that old place, and with hardly
a thing to do, either!"

That night they sent her down a little box of fudge that they had made
in the afternoon, and the next night a book that had captivated them
both. And when they pulled up the string the evening after, there was
the book again, and in it a tiny note, which ran:

      DEAR GIRLS: You are too, too good to me. I ought not to be writing
      this. It is wrong, I fear, but I just cannot sleep until I have
      thanked you for the sweets, and this beautiful book. I read it
      all, to-day. You are making me very happy. I love you both.

  CECILY.

Meantime, they had seen Miss Benedict go in and out once or twice,
limping slightly, and had watched her veiled figure with absorbed
interest.

"Who could possibly imagine her as beautiful!" they marveled. And truly,
it was an effort of imagination to connect beauty with the queer, oddly
arrayed little figure.

Also, at various times during each day, Marcia made a point of giving a
little violin concert at her window, and, at Janet's suggestion, had
chosen the liveliest and most cheerful music in her repertoire for sad
little Cecily's entertainment.

The two girls likewise exhausted every possibility in the line of small
gifts and tiny trifles to amuse and entertain their young neighbor. But
there was no further communication from her till one night after they
had sent down an embroidery ring and silks, the latest pattern of a
dainty boudoir-cap, and elaborate instructions how to embroider it. Next
night there was a note on the end of the string when they drew it up. It
read:

      How dear of you to send me this! I _love_ to embroider, and had
      brought no materials with me. And now I want to ask you a
      question. Do you mind what I do with it after it is finished? Is
      it my very own? What can I ever do to repay you for all your
      kindness!

In their answer they assured her that she could make any use of the
boudoir-cap that pleased her. And then they spent much time wondering
what use she _was_ going to make of it.

Two nights later, when they pulled up the string, they found, to their
surprise, a small parcel attached to the end. It contained a little box
in which lay, wrapped in jeweler's cotton, a tiny coral pendant in an
old-fashioned gold setting, and a silver bracelet of thin filigree-work.
The pendant was labeled, "For Marcia, with Cecily's love," and the
bracelet, "For Janet, with love from Cecily."

The two girls gazed at the pathetic little gifts and sudden tears came
into their eyes.

"Oh, Jan!" half sobbed Marcia; "we oughtn't to keep them! They're
probably the only trinkets she has."

But Janet was wiser. "We must keep them," she decided. "Cecily doesn't
want all the giving to be on one side, and she has probably been longing
to do something for us. I suppose these are the only things she had that
would be suitable. Much as I hate to have her deprive herself of them, I
know she'd be terribly hurt if we sent them back. To-morrow we must
write her the best letter of thanks we can."

So the days went by for two or three weeks. The girls caught, in all
this time, not so much as one glimpse of Cecily, but they managed,
thanks to their "line of communication," to keep constantly in touch
with her. Meantime, the summer weather waxed hotter and hotter, and the
city fairly steamed under the July sun. Their own time was taken up by
many diversions: trips to the parks, beaches, and zoo; excursions out
of town with Aunt Minerva; shopping, and quiet sewing or reading in
their pleasant living-room. Every time they went out of their home on a
pleasure-jaunt, they felt guilty, to think of the lonely little prisoner
cooped up in the dreary house next door, and both declared they would
gladly give up their places to her, had such a thing been possible.

Then, one night, something unusual occurred. They had sent down the
usual note, and also a little work-basket of Indian-woven sweet-grass,
the souvenir of a recent trip to the seaside. To their astonishment,
when they drew up the string, both note and basket were still attached.
This was the first time such a thing had happened.

"What _can_ be the matter?" queried Marcia. "Can it be possible that
Cecily feels she mustn't do this any more?"

"_I_ didn't hear any footsteps down there to-night, did you?" said
Janet.

"No, come to think of it, I didn't. She must have stayed indoors for the
first time since we began this. But what do you suppose is the reason?"

Janet suddenly clutched her friend. "Marcia, can it be possible that
Miss Benedict has discovered what we've been doing, and won't let her
come out any more?"

"I believe that's it!" Marcia's voice was sharp with consternation.
"Wouldn't it be dreadful, if it's so?" They sat gloomily thinking it
over.

"Well, what are we going to do about it?" demanded Marcia.

"Wait till to-morrow night and try again," counseled Janet. "It's just
possible Cecily had a headache or felt sick from this abominable heat
and couldn't come down. Let's see what happens to-morrow."

The next night they tied the basket and another note to the string and
dropped it down hopefully. But they drew it up untouched, precisely the
same as before.

"It's just one of two things," decided Marcia. "Either Cecily is ill or
Miss Benedict has found out about our little plan and forbidden Cecily
to go on with it. What are we to do? Keep on sending notes, or stop it?
Suppose Miss Benedict herself should find one sometime."

"I don't care!" cried Janet, decisively. "If Cecily is ill, she'll get
better pretty soon and come out some night, and there'll be nothing for
her. She'd be dreadfully disappointed. I don't care if there _is_ the
possibility that Miss Benedict knows all about it. I'm going to keep
right on writing and take the chance!"

For a whole week they followed their usual program, nightly sending down
a fresh note that they always later drew up, unclaimed. And as the days
passed they became more and more alarmed. Something had certainly
happened to Cecily. Of that they were sure, and their misgivings grew
more keen with the passing time.

"Can it be that she isn't there any more?" conjectured Marcia, suddenly,
one day. "Perhaps Miss Benedict has sent her away!"

This was a new and startling possibility. The more they contemplated it,
the more depressed they grew. If that were the case, then, they might
never see Cecily again, and the delightful and curious friendship would
be ended forever.

Their usual good spirits were quite subdued, and even their hearty
appetites suffered somewhat, which worried Aunt Minerva not a little,
though she attributed it to the heat. Finally, one night, precisely one
week after the first unclaimed communication, they sent down the usual
letter, begging Cecily, if possible, to let them know what was the
matter. It seemed to both, during the interval they left it there, that
they heard light, almost stealthy footsteps in the garden below. But
neither felt certain about it. An hour later they drew up the string.
Their own note was still attached to it at the bottom, but just above it
they saw fastened a little scrap of paper, no bigger than a quarter of
an ordinary note-sheet. Both girls started with delight.

"Quick!" cried Marcia. "Cecily has answered at last! Oh, I'm so glad!"

Janet unfastened it, her fingers trembling with excitement, and spread
it out on the table.

It was not in Cecily's handwriting, and contained but a few words. Both
girls read it at a glance, and then stared into each other's eyes, half
terror-stricken, half amazed. For this is what it said:

      Will you please come to the gate to-morrow morning at half-past
      nine?

  A. BENEDICT.




CHAPTER IX

FOR THE SAKE OF CECILY


"What _can_ it mean?" muttered Janet. "What does she want of us?"

"Why, it's perfectly plain," declared Marcia. "She has discovered that
we have been trying to correspond with Cecily, and she's going to demand
an explanation--probably warn us that we must stop it. Are you--afraid
to go, Janet?"

"Not I! Why should I be? Miss Benedict can't do or say a thing to harm
_us_! But I _am_ anxious for poor little Cecily. I just hate to think we
may have brought trouble on her."

"Oh, I wish now we'd never suggested such a thing!" moaned Marcia.
"We've just succeeded in making that poor little thing miserable, I
suppose."

"Well, we can only remember that we _meant_ to make her happy, and we
_did_--for a while, at least," comforted Janet. "And what's more, I'm
not going to worry about it another bit to-night. Maybe it's something
entirely different, anyway."

Marcia, however, could not bring herself to this cheerful view of
things. All night long she tossed beside the sleeping Janet, wondering
and wondering about what the coming interview might mean, and blaming
herself a thousand times for placing Cecily in the position of having
deceived her guardian. When morning came she was pale and heavy-eyed,
which alarmed her aunt not a little.

"You ought not go out this morning, Marcia," remarked Miss Minerva,
anxiously. "The sun is very hot, and you look as if you had a headache."

"Oh, no, I haven't, Aunty!" cried Marcia, eagerly, fearful of a hitch in
their plans. "I didn't sleep very well, but a walk in the fresh air will
do me good, I know." And so Miss Minerva saw them go, without further
protest.

They both halted at the gate in the brick wall and looked into each
other's eyes. The hot morning sun beat down upon them as they stood
there, and passers-by eyed them curiously. Each was perfectly certain
that the thumping of her heart could be heard. And still they stood,
hesitating.

"You're afraid!" accused Janet.

"I'm--not!" protested Marcia. "And I'll prove it!" She raised her hand
suddenly--and pulled the rusty bell-handle.

It seemed a long, long time before there was any response. But at last
they heard the click of the opening front door and the sound of
footsteps on the path. This was followed by the creaking of a key
turning in the lock of the gate. Janet gripped Marcia by the hand, and
with pounding hearts they stood together, while the gate slowly opened.
In another instant, the veiled, black-gowned figure of Miss Benedict
stood before them. She waited a moment, silent, appearing to look them
over critically.

"Come in, if you please!" she said at last, very softly, and held the
gate open for them. They entered obediently, and she shut the gate. It
was not until they were inside the house, standing in the dim hall with
the front door closed behind them, that another word was spoken. Then
Miss Benedict faced them again, but she did not remove her bonnet or
throw back her veil.

"I have asked you to come here this morning," she began, "because I
understand that you have become acquainted with the child Cecily
Marlowe."

Cold chills ran up and down their spines. It had come at last! "Yes,"
faltered Janet, "we--we _have_ become acquainted with her." It was not a
brilliant reply, but, for the life of her, she could think of nothing
else to say. They waited, shuddering, for what might be coming next.

"So she has told me," went on Miss Benedict. "I also understand that
lately you have been dropping notes to her into the garden--at night."

Janet noticed, even in the midst of her trepidation, how wonderfully
sweet and soft and harmonious the voice was.

"Yes," replied Marcia, very low, "we have." The worst was out--now let
the blow fall! They braced themselves to receive it.

"Cecily is ill!" said Miss Benedict, abruptly.

They each uttered a startled little "Oh!"

"She has not been at all well for over a week," the lovely voice
continued. "I am very much worried about her."

Janet and Marcia glanced into each other's eyes in astonishment. Cecily
ill--and Miss Benedict actually _caring_ about it! Here were surprises
indeed!

"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious!" exclaimed Marcia, anxiously.

"I hope it is not--and I _think_ it is probably only the hot weather
and--and want of exercise." Miss Benedict hesitated a little over the
last. "She has been so--poorly, and has--has evidently been so anxious
to--to see you, that I thought I would--surprise her by asking you to
come and--visit her a while." It was plainly a struggle for Miss
Benedict to make this seem the natural, normal thing to do. "Will
you--come up to her room?"

The girls were almost too stunned at the turn events had taken to reply.
"Why--we'd be glad to," faltered Marcia, at last.

"Then, if you will follow me--" Miss Benedict led the way, through the
dark halls and up three pairs of stairs. At the door of a room on the
fourth floor she paused, knocked, and then entered. They followed, dimly
perceiving a little form in the bed, for the shutters, of course, were
closed. As they entered after Miss Benedict Cecily sprang to a sitting
posture, with a cry of mingled wonder, consternation, and joy. She, too,
glanced uncertainly at Miss Benedict.

"I have asked your friends to come and--and see you for a while," she
explained hesitatingly to the bewildered child. "Perhaps it will make
you--feel better." Then she turned abruptly and went out of the room,
closing the door after her.

For a moment they stared at one another.

"Cecily!" cried Janet, at length, "what _does_ this all mean, anyway?"

"I never dreamed of such a thing as seeing you--here!" faltered the
invalid.

"What made her do it?" demanded Marcia. "We found a note from her tied
to our string. How did she know about it?"

Cecily seemed to shrink back at this piece of news. "I told her,
myself," she said. "I was very sick one night--I think I had a fever. My
head was so hot and ached so. And she was--oh! so good to me! I could
hardly believe it! She bathed my head, and sat by me, and put her cool
hands on my forehead. It really seemed as if she--cared! And I felt so
ashamed to think I'd--disobeyed her that I just told her right out all
about it--how lonely I'd been, and how good you were to me, and how I'd
enjoyed hearing from you."

"And what did she say?" breathed Marcia, in an awe-struck whisper.

"Not a word except, 'Never mind now, little girl!' And she never said a
thing more about it. I didn't dream that she'd ever do such a thing as
_send_ for you to come and see me!"

They marveled over it all a moment in silence. Then Marcia burst out:
"Oh, Cecily, we've been _so_ worried about you! We couldn't think why
you didn't even take the letters any more. Have you been very ill?"

"Why, I don't know--I just feel horrid most of the time. My head aches a
lot, and every once in a while I'm awfully cold, and then I seem to be
burning up--"

"Why, I believe you must have malaria!" interrupted Marcia. "That's what
Aunt Minerva has sometimes. You ought to go out more, and have fresh air
and--sunshine--" She stopped suddenly, remembering the conditions. "But
anyway, it isn't serious," she hurried on, after an embarrassed pause.
"And you ought to have some quinine. I wonder if Miss Benedict would let
us get it for you. I'll ask her, later." Then they hurried on to tell
her how they had continued to send down a note every night, hoping that
she would get it, and how they had feared that she might have gone away.

And Cecily, in return, told them how she had enjoyed the notes and
gifts, but how guilty she had always felt about receiving them,
especially when she had answered them.

"And I finished embroidering the boudoir-cap," she ended, "and--and I
gave it to Miss Benedict."

"You _did_?" they both gasped.

"Oh, I _hope_ you don't mind!" exclaimed Cecily, hastily; "but--but I
felt as if I wanted to _do_ something for her. She--I--I think I'm
getting to like her--more and more."

"What did she say?" asked Marcia. "Was she pleased? I can't imagine her
wearing such a thing."

"She looked at it and then at me--very strangely for a minute. Then she
said: 'Thank you, child. I--I never wear such things, but I'll keep
it--for your sake!'"

"Isn't that queer!" exclaimed Janet. "You thought she cared nothing
about you!"

"Yes," agreed Cecily; "but lately--I'm not so sure."

In the pause that followed, the girls glanced curiously about the
darkened room, trying to realize that they were actually inside the
mysterious house at last. It was a large, square room, furnished with
heavy chairs and an old-fashioned bureau and bed. Every shutter was
fastened and the slats tightly closed. Only the dimmest daylight
filtered in. The effect was gloomy and depressing to the last degree.
They wondered how Cecily had stood it so long.

[Illustration: "I'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't open these
shutters," cried Janet, suddenly]

"I'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't open these shutters," cried
Janet, suddenly. "I should think you'd die of this gloom. It's really
bad for you, Cecily!"

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Cecily, in consternation. "I asked her once, when
I first came, and she didn't like it at all! She said no, she preferred
to have them shut, and I must not touch them."

"I don't care!" went on Janet, ruthlessly. "You weren't sick then. I'm
sure she'd let you now!" And, true to her word, she turned to Miss
Benedict, who entered at this moment, still bonneted and veiled.

"I believe Cecily has malaria, Miss Benedict," she began bravely, but
with inward trepidation.

"Oh, do you think so? Is it serious?" The melodious voice sounded
startled and concerned.

"I don't think it's so serious," Janet continued, "but she'd probably
get over it quicker if she had a lot of fresh air and sunshine. Couldn't
she have the shutters open? It would do her lots of good."

Cecily and Marcia trembled at Janet's temerity and watched Miss Benedict
with bated breath. But instead of being annoyed, she only seemed
surprised and relieved.

"Why, do you think so?" she queried. "Then--surely they may be opened.
I--I do not like the--the glare of so much daylight myself, but Cecily
may have it here, if she chooses." And following up her words, she
pushed open one of the shutters. A broad shaft of sunlight streamed in,
and, blinking from the previous gloom, Janet and Marcia threw open
the others.

Cecily gave a delighted cry, "Oh, how lovely it is to see the sun
again!" But Miss Benedict, with an abrupt exclamation, retreated hastily
from the room.

The girls stayed a few moments more, chatting. Then they wisely
suggested that perhaps they had better go, and not tire Cecily by too
long a call. Hearing Miss Benedict's footstep in the hall below, they
took their leave, promising to come again, as soon as it seemed best. On
the landing of the stairway they found the black-veiled figure
apparently waiting for them.

Now, during all the strange little interview, a curious impression had
been growing upon Janet, strengthened by every word Miss Benedict had
uttered--an impression that here was no grim, forbidding jailor, such as
they had imagined the mistress of "Benedict's Folly" to be. Instead,
they had encountered a gentle, almost winning, little person, worried
about the illness of the child in her care and plainly anxious to do
everything suggested to make her more comfortable. Janet suddenly
resolved on a bold move.

"Cecily is so lonely," she began, turning to Miss Benedict. "Don't you
think it would do her lots of good to come in and visit us once in a
while? Marcia's aunt would be so glad to see her. As soon as she is a
little better, can't she--"

"No," interrupted Miss Benedict, her little figure suddenly stiffening
and a determined note creeping into her soft voice. "I am sorry. Cecily
cannot make visits. It is out of the question!"

It was like striking a hidden rock in a smooth, beautiful sheet of
water. And her words admitted of no argument. Janet and Marcia followed
her meekly and in silence down to the front door. Here, in an uncertain
pause, Marcia made one further suggestion.

"May we bring Cecily some quinine?" she ventured. "If she has malaria,
she ought to have that. We have lots of it at home."

"It would be very kind of you," replied Miss Benedict, in an entirely
different tone. "Come to-morrow and see her again--if your aunt will
permit it. Perhaps it would be well to explain to her--" and here her
manner became confused--"that--I--er--do not make calls or--or receive
them, but this is just--just for the sake of the child." It was plain to
the girls that this admission was wrung from her only by a great effort.
She opened the front door and followed them to the gate. When she had
unlocked it, Marcia turned to her impulsively.

"Thank you _so_ much for letting us come! We are very, very fond of
Cecily. She is such a dear, and we've been terribly worried about her.
As a relative, I'm afraid you have been still more anxious."

The black figure started. "She is no relative of mine!" came abruptly
from behind the veil.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, I should say--_friend_," stuttered Marcia,
embarrassed, "or--or the daughter of a friend, perhaps."

"She is not," Miss Benedict contradicted, in a strange, flat tone, as if
repeating a lesson. "I do not know who she is--nor why she is here!"




CHAPTER X

THE FILIGREE BRACELET


Aunt Minerva took off her silver-rimmed spectacles, wiped them
excitedly, and put them on again.

"And she said she didn't know who the child was or why she was there?
Well--I--never!" she exclaimed, adjusting them all awry.

Marcia had decided to tell her aunt all about it. And Janet had agreed
with her that since Miss Benedict had spoken as she did, there could be
no further occasion for secrecy. So that night they gave her an entire
history of the affair, and found her a willing listener, interested and
sympathetic beyond their wildest expectations.

"Why, Aunty, I didn't suppose you'd care much about it!" exclaimed
Marcia, in surprise. "And here you are, nearly as excited over it as
we've been."

"Why, who would not be?" said Miss Minerva. "It's precisely like a
mystery in a book. I wasn't interested in the old place at first,
because I was too busy and it seemed as if the people living there were
such slack housekeepers. I haven't any sympathy with _that_. But what
could she mean by that last remark? Not know who the child is--or why
she's there! It's absurd! I can't believe it!"

"Well, that's what she _said_!" asserted Marcia, again. "And if any one
ever heard of a bigger mystery, I'd like to know about it!"

Miss Minerva took up her mending again. "Then I don't see why she keeps
the girl," she commented.

"She keeps her, _I_ think, because she's getting sort of fond of her,"
reasoned Janet. "You can easily see that. Cecily said she was very good
to her the night she was so ill. And then, too, it must have been a hard
pull for her to go so far as to send for _us_ to come in just because it
might please Cecily."

"We must see that the child has the quinine, and it wouldn't hurt her to
have a glass or two of currant jelly. Don't forget them when you go in
to-morrow," Miss Minerva reminded them. "I'd like to have her here and
nurse her myself and feed her up a bit. And that's another strange
thing--why should that woman" (Miss Minerva invariably alluded to Miss
Benedict as "that woman") "allow you to go in and visit the child, yet
forbid her to visit you?"

"Don't ask us why," laughed Marcia. "We're as much in the dark as any
one else. What _I_ want to know is why did Miss Benedict allow Cecily to
open her shutters to-day when she refused her a while ago. And why
doesn't she open them over all the rest of the house?"

"Well, what _I_ want to know," added Janet, "is why Cecily's mother
should have sent her over here to the Benedicts' at all, when nobody
knew her or claimed her. Whatever made her think of such a thing?"

"There are several explanations that might suit such a case," mused
Miss Minerva. "Mrs. Marlowe might have been a married sister, or some
more distant relative, who--"

"Then wouldn't Miss Benedict know about it--or at least _suspect_ some
such connection?" interrupted Marcia.

"That's true," acknowledged her aunt. "There _must_ be some other
explanation. _What_ a puzzle!"

"What's more," added Janet, "I remember that Cecily told us this: when
she first came, Miss Benedict questioned her all about herself--where
she came from, and all that. And after Cecily had told her she never
said a word, but just walked away, shaking her head."

Miss Minerva's mind suddenly took a new turn. "Didn't you say the child
sent you a couple of gifts--little trinkets--not long ago? I'd like to
see them."

"We've never worn them," said Marcia. "It just seemed as if we
couldn't--she ought not to have given them away. And yet--I know just
how she felt--she wanted to do _something_! I'll get them." She brought
the box and laid it in her aunt's lap.

Miss Minerva examined the coral pendant first. "The dear little thing!"
she murmured. "She must think a lot of you to have parted with this!"
Then she laid it down and took up the bracelet. "Gracious!" she
exclaimed immediately, letting it fall and then picking it up again. "Am
I going crazy, or are my eyes deceiving me?" She turned it over and
over.

"What's the matter?" cried both girls at once.

"_Matter?_" cried Miss Minerva. "Why, just this: that bracelet is
exactly like one I've had put away for years!" The girls stared at her
incredulously. "I'll get it this minute and prove it!" And she hurried
out of the room.

While she was gone they examined the bracelet more closely than they had
yet done. It consisted of two thin rims of silver, joined by silver
filigree-work, a quarter of an inch wide. Here and there, at intervals
in the filigree, and forming part of the pattern, were several strange
characters, looking, as Marcia declared, like those on the receipt from
a Chinese laundry. The workmanship was unusually delicate and beautiful.

In five minutes Miss Minerva was back, flushed and disheveled, from a
hunt through several bureau-drawers and boxes.

"I couldn't find it at first," she panted. "In Northam I used to be able
to lay my hand on anything I wanted, at an instant's notice, but in this
apartment!" She heaved a resigned sigh and laid something beside the
bracelet on the table.

It was the exact duplicate--in every last detail! Even the complicated
characters were identical! The three stared at the trinkets in an
expressive silence. Not for a moment could it be doubted that these two
bracelets were once a pair. They were so unusual that it was impossible
there could be others like them. This astonishing fact was patent to
them all.

"Aunt Minerva, where _did_ you get yours?" breathed Marcia, at last.

"Why, that's easily explained," answered Miss Brett. "Your father
brought it to me about ten or twelve years ago, after one of his
voyages. He said that a Chinese sailor in Hong-Kong had offered to sell
it to him for a small sum, and seeing it was a rather unique little
trinket, he bought it and brought it home to me. I never wear such
things, however. Jewelry never did appeal to me, and bracelets,
particularly, always seemed a nuisance. So I put it away intending to
give it to you some day, Marcia. And after a while I actually forgot all
about it--till to-night!"

Janet sat up very straight. "There's just one thing I'd give my head to
know--this minute! _Where_ did Cecily get _her_ bracelet?"

"Well, that you can easily find out--but I'm afraid you'll have to wait
till to-morrow morning!" laughed Marcia.

"There's something very strange about this," marveled Miss Minerva,
turning the two trinkets over and over. "Actually, I can hardly tell
now which is mine and which hers, except that mine is a little more
tarnished from having been laid away. Your father said, when he gave me
mine, that he'd never seen anything like it in any of those foreign
jewelry-shops and that was why he'd been specially attracted to it."

"Aunty," said Marcia, suddenly, "where do you suppose that sailor got
it?"

"Your father said," replied Miss Minerva, "that he'd probably stolen it,
or somebody else had. It may have passed through dozens of hands after
it was taken from the original owner. You never can tell about such
things in the East, and it's useless to inquire."

Again they all stared hard at the two silver trinkets, lying side by
side on the table.

"And these two bracelets once belonged to the same person," murmured
Marcia, at last; "perhaps to some one connected with Cecily. And to
think they should have drifted halfway around the world to find
themselves side by side again in busy, practical New York!"




CHAPTER XI

THE LIFTED VEIL


Next morning Marcia and Janet sallied forth to make their promised visit
to Cecily. They were armed with a box of quinine pills, two glasses of
currant jelly, a new magazine, Marcia's violin in its case, and, last,
but not least, the two filigree bracelets. And they were literally
bursting with news and excitement.

Miss Benedict opened the gate for them as before, and to their inquiries
replied that Cecily seemed a little better. If she noticed the
suppressed excitement in their manner, she did not comment upon it, but
only led the way to Cecily's room without further words. She was
bonneted and veiled as usual. At the door she left them, saying she
would not go in.

"Cecily, Cecily!" cried Marcia, immediately; "we have news--such strange
news for you!" Cecily was at once all eagerness and animation.

"Oh, tell me, quickly!" she exclaimed, sitting up in the bed. "I feel so
much better. I'm going to get up to-day. But how can you have any
news--about me?"

"Cecily," said Janet, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "have you
been thinking, all this time, that Miss Benedict knew everything about
you, and why you came here, and all that?"

"Why, of course!" cried Cecily, opening her eyes wide. "She has never
explained it to me, and she's so--_queer_ that I never liked to ask her.
But I always thought she _knew_!"

"Well, she doesn't--not a thing, apparently," replied Janet, and then
repeated to her all the strange conversation at the gate on the day
before.

When she had finished, Cecily sat as if stunned--quiet and rigid and
staring out of the window. So much had it appeared to affect her that
Janet was suddenly sorry she had said a word about it.

"Then--what does it all mean?" murmured Cecily, at last. "I'm here
where I've no right to be. Nobody knows me--or wants me. How did it all
happen? Don't I belong to _anybody_?" She looked so bewildered, so
frightened, so unhappy, that Janet and Marcia both put their arms about
her.

"It's all right, Cecily; it's _sure_ to be all right--in the end. _We_
would love you and want you if nobody else did. And I'm sure Miss
Benedict must care for you too. She really acts so. But the question is,
how did you ever come to be sent here at all? Didn't your mother ever
say anything to you about this place or any of the people over here?"

"No," said Cecily, in a hushed voice. It was evident from her manner
that her grief over the loss of her mother was very keen, and she had
only once voluntarily referred to it or to anything connected with it.

"My mother never, never mentioned the name of Benedict to me,--I never
heard of it before."

"But couldn't Miss Benedict possibly have been some connection--some
distant connection that she never thought of or mentioned?" persisted
Marcia.

"No--my mother's people were all English," declared Cecily, "and they
were all dead. We had no relatives living."

"Well, your father, then?" supplemented Janet. "What about him?"

"I never knew him to remember him. Mother said he died when I was a baby
a year or two old. He hadn't any relatives, either."

"Well, here's something else we have to tell you, and it's the strangest
thing yet," began Janet. "Can you tell us where you got that bracelet,
Cecily,--the one you were so lovely as to send to us?"

"Why, I always had it," answered Cecily. "Even when I was a tiny little
girl and it was much too big for me, it seemed to be mine. Mother kept
it in a box, but she let me play with it once in a while. Then when I
was older and it fitted me better, she let me wear it. I _think_ she
said my father gave it to me. I don't remember very clearly. I don't
believe I ever thought much about it, although I realized it was rather
unusual. But why do you ask?"

"Did she ever say it had a mate--that there was a pair of them?"
questioned Marcia.

"Oh, no! I'm sure she never said anything about another."

"What do you think of this, then?" Marcia drew the two bracelets out of
her bag, and laid them side by side on the bed.

"Why, how very, very _queer_!" cried Cecily, incredulously. "Where _did_
you get the other?"

Marcia outlined its history. "You see, there isn't a shadow of doubt
that there was once a pair of them," she ended, "and that they both
belonged to the same person. Now _who_ could that person be?"

"It must have been some one connected with you, Cecily," added Janet.
"Everything points that way. Well, one thing is certain: if we could
find out the truth about these two bracelets, I believe we'd find out
about Cecily, too--why she is here and the whole mystery!"

All three were very silent for a moment, considering.

"I know one thing," ventured Marcia, at length. "Cecily, you must _not_
give this bracelet away. It was dear and sweet of you to think of it in
the first place--and we'll keep the little coral pendant for both of us
if you like. But the bracelet is something that may mean a great deal to
you yet, and you ought to have it. Don't you agree with me, Janet?"

"I certainly do," added Janet, heartily; "and what's more, I've thought
of something else. When Captain Brett comes home next time, he _may_ be
able to tell us something more about the other bracelet. When do you
expect him, Marcia?"

"Not for two or three months," replied Marcia, ruefully. "I'd give
anything if it could only be sooner. It seems as if we _never_ could
wait that long!"

"Well, let's not think of it just now," comforted Janet. "I don't
suppose we can find out anything till he _does_ come, so there's no use
fretting. How would you like to hear some music, Cecily? Marcia's
brought her violin."

"How good of you!" cried Cecily, an almost pathetic eagerness in her
voice. "It will be wonderful to hear it near by!"

So Marcia opened the case and took out the instrument, tuned it, tucked
it lovingly under her chin, and slipped into a rollicking Hungarian
dance by Brahms, while her little audience listened spellbound.

"Oh, something else, please!" sighed Cecily, blissfully, when it was
ended. And Marcia, changing the theme, gave them the lullaby from
"Jocelyn," and after that Beethoven's Minuet in G.

"Just _one_ more," begged Cecily; "that is--if you're not too tired. The
one I--I like so much!"

"I know--the 'Träumerei,'" nodded Marcia, and once more laid her bow
across the strings.

When the last note had died away, they were all suddenly startled by a
strange sound just outside the door--a sound that was partly a sob and
partly a half-stifled exclamation.

Before she quite realized what she was doing, Janet, who happened to be
sitting near the door, sprang up and threw it open.

[Illustration: "In the sudden light of the open door she stood
revealed"]

In the hall outside stood Miss Benedict, her hands clasped tensely in
front of her. But, strangest of all, her veil was thrown back from her
face, and in the sudden light of the open door she stood revealed! In an
instant they realized that Cecily had not exaggerated the beauty of her
singularly lovely face. She plainly had been listening, captivated, to
the music within the room, and something about it must have stirred her
strangely.

All this they noticed in the fraction of a moment, for, as she saw them,
she pulled down her veil with a hasty movement, murmuring something
about having heard music and coming to see what it was.

But she did not pull it down quickly enough to hide one fact from the
gaze of the two girls--that her beautiful gray eyes were brimming with
tears!




CHAPTER XII

MISS BENEDICT SPEAKS


It was Miss Minerva who decided that Miss Benedict must be told about
the coincidence of the two bracelets.

"Certainly, she ought to know!" she declared positively. "There must be
_some_ reason why that child has been sent to her, and she ought to be
told all the facts concerning her. Who knows but what _she_ may have
some explanation of this bracelet mystery! You tell her the very next
time you go in. And don't forget to take a jar of that quince marmalade,
besides." Aunt Minerva had determined on keeping Cecily well supplied
with toothsome dainties, which commodities, she keenly suspected, were
scarce in the big house. In fact, the girls had told her that the
marketing for that establishment, so far as they had seen, seemed to
consist mainly of milk and eggs, rice and prunes!

So a day or two after, when they visited Cecily again, they planned to
have an interview with her guardian. Marcia was shy about broaching the
subject, so the task was left to Janet, who, being anxious to settle the
matter immediately, began it as soon as the gate was opened.

"Miss Benedict," she said, "there is something quite strange about
Cecily that we should like to tell you. Could you spare a few moments to
hear about it?"

"Why--er--of course!" replied the little black-veiled lady, in a rather
startled voice. "Will you--er--that is, I will come to her room in a
little while--if you will kindly close the shutters--first!" And she
directed them to proceed upstairs, without this time accompanying them.

Cecily was overjoyed at their appearance. She was sitting by the window,
fully dressed, the sunshine streaming in on her, transforming her curls
into a radiant halo. A definite change had come over her during the
last few days, caused, no doubt, by the enjoyment of light and sunshine
and companionship. She was losing some of her former wan, wistful,
frightened aspect, and assuming more of the confiding, sunny
characteristics that were natural to her. At the moment the girls
entered she was reading a magazine brought by them on their previous
visit.

After the first greetings and chat they reported their conversation with
Miss Benedict.

"She's coming up soon," ended Marcia, "and we must get the shutters
closed. But what on earth _for_? Why _can't_ she be like ordinary people
and enjoy the air and sunshine like the rest of us? Do _you_ know,
Cecily?"

"No, I can't imagine. It has all seemed very strange to me ever since I
came. But you know how odd Miss Benedict is. I can't abide asking her
any questions, and she never explains anything. The whole house is
darkened like this all the time, and since she let me open my shutters,
she's never once been in this room in the daytime. She never goes out
without that heavy veil, not even into the garden. I don't understand
it!"

"Do you know," suggested Marcia, half under her breath, "one would
almost think she had done something wrong and was ashamed of showing her
face in the daylight. I've heard of such things. And that would explain
some other queer things about this place, too, like--"

"Hush!" warned Janet. "I hear her coming."

In another moment Miss Benedict had opened the door. And in the very dim
light (Marcia had been closing the shutters as they talked) they saw an
unusual sight. Miss Benedict had come to them without her bonnet and
veil!

The change in her appearance was surprising. Her wonderful white hair
was piled on top of her head in a heavy coronet braid. Her complexion
was singularly soft and youthful, and her lovely gray eyes, even in the
dim light, easily seemed her most attractive feature. It was a curious
contrast made by the removal of the ugly bonnet and veil. In them she
appeared a little, insignificant, unattractive personality. Without
them, though short and slight of figure, she possessed a look and manner
almost regal.

She did not refer to the omission of her usual headgear, but took a seat
and quietly asked them what they had to tell her.

Janet undertook to explain, and began by telling how Cecily had sent the
little gift to them, via the string, and ended by explaining about Aunt
Minerva's duplicate. Miss Benedict listened to it all without comment.
When Janet had finished and held out the two bracelets for her to
examine, she merely took them and laid them in her lap, scarcely
glancing at them. They waited, breathless, for her response.

"No," she said, "I know nothing about these bracelets. It is, of course,
very singular--a surprising coincidence that your aunt should have one
of them. But I know nothing about them, any more than I know about
Cecily herself." It was the first time she had ever referred to the
matter before Cecily, and it was evident that it was not easy for her to
do so.

"I might as well speak plainly to you all about this, since the matter
has come up. I did not know little Cecily; I had never heard of her, nor
anything about her before she came here. I cannot imagine why she was
sent. I have no relatives whose child she could have been, nor any
friend who could have given her into my care."

"Then why," interrupted Janet, "if you will pardon me for asking, Miss
Benedict,--why did you take her in the day she came?"

Miss Benedict's manner instantly became a trifle confused and
embarrassed. "It is--er--a little difficult to explain, I confess," she
stammered. "The truth is--I--er--it is commonly reported that we--that
is--I have some means. I have frequently, in the past years, received
very strange letters from people utterly unknown to me,--begging
letters, letters proposing to invest my money for me,--oh! I cannot
begin to tell you all the strange things these letters propose. I
understand it is a not unusual experience--with well-to-do people. I
have even received letters proposing that I adopt the writer's children
and eventually settle my money on them!"

Here Janet and Marcia could not repress a giggle, and Miss Benedict
smiled slightly in sympathy.

"It _does_ sound absurd," she admitted; "but it is quite true, and has
often been most annoying. So, when the letter arrived announcing
Cecily's coming, for which there was given no particular explanation, I
thought it simply another case of a similar kind. And I resolved to
dismiss both the child and her attendant as soon as they appeared.

"But when the day came, strangely enough, I changed my mind. It was
Cecily herself led me to do so. I felt as soon as I looked at her that,
whoever had sent her here and for whatever purpose, the child herself
was innocent of any fraud or imposture. She believed that I would
receive her, that I _knew_ it was all right. There was something
_trusting_ about her eyes, her look, her whole manner. I cannot explain
it. And that was not all--there was another reason.

"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.

"But, Miss Benedict," she began, "we all think that these bracelets may
have something to do with Cecily's affairs--might explain a good deal of
the mystery, if we could only puzzle them out. Have you noticed what
strange signs there are on them? We think they must be something in
Chinese. Let me give you a little more light and then you can see them
better." And Janet, deeply immersed in the subject and still unconscious
of her blunder, was about to go and open a shutter, when Miss Benedict
quickly raised her hand.

"Please--er--_please_ do not!" she exclaimed hurriedly.

"Oh! I beg your pardon--I forgot!" cried Janet, in confusion, and the
silence at once became more embarrassed than ever. So much so, in fact,
that Miss Benedict evidently felt impelled to explain her conduct. And
she made the first revelation concerning her singular mode of life.

"I am--er--my eyes are not able to stand it. For years I have suffered
with some obscure trouble in them. I can _see_, but I cannot stand any
bright light. It hurts them beyond endurance. At home I must have the
rooms darkened in this way. And when I go out, even my heavy veil is
not sufficient. Behind it I must also wear smoked spectacles."

She said no more, but she did not need to. A little inarticulate murmur
of sympathy rose from her listeners. And in the twilight of the room
Marcia glanced quickly and guiltily into Janet's contrite face.




CHAPTER XIII

VIA WIRELESS


It was a week after the events of the last chapter. The girls had gone
regularly every day to visit Cecily. It was Marcia who had finally
mustered up courage to ask Miss Benedict if Cecily could not go into the
garden and enjoy there some outdoor air and sunshine. Miss Benedict had
hesitated at first, but at last she conceded that Cecily and the girls
might sit in the garden if they would go out of the house by a small
side door and remain on that side of the house.

They found that this door was on the opposite side of the house from
Cecily's room: consequently, they had never seen it. And they soon
discovered one reason, at least, why Miss Benedict wished them to remain
exclusively on that side. It was screened both back and front by thick
bushes and trees. And at the side, above the garden wall, rose the high
blank side of a building, unrelieved by a single window. Here they were
as absolutely screened from public view as if they were within the
house. Here also was an old rustic bench and table, and they spent
several happy mornings in the secluded spot, sewing, reading, and
chatting.

Cecily seemed fairly to open out before their eyes, like a flower-bud
expanding in warm, sunny atmosphere. Only at times now did she show any
trace of the frightened repression of their earlier acquaintance. They
seldom talked abut the mystery surrounding her, because they had
discovered that any allusion to it only made her uneasy, unhappy, and
rather silent. Moreover, further discussion of it was rather useless, as
they seemed to have reached a point in its solution beyond which
progress was hopeless.

So they talked gaily about themselves and their own affairs, sometimes
of their former home in Northam, the pleasant New England village.
Occasionally Cecily would reciprocate by allowing them glimpses of her
life in the obscure little English town from which she had come. Only
rarely did she allude to the circumstances of her present home, and
though the girls secretly ached to know more about it, they were too
tactful to ask any questions.

One query, whose answer they could not guess was this: who was the other
mysterious old lady, kept so closely a prisoner in her room by Miss
Benedict? And why was she so kept? Marcia and Janet were never tired of
discussing this question between themselves. That it was a relative,
they could not doubt. And they recalled one or two remarks Miss Benedict
had dropped, particularly when she had said: "We--that is--I have some
means."

The "we" must certainly have referred to herself and the other one. But
could that "other one" be mother, sister, aunt, or cousin? And why was
there so much secrecy about her? Cecily had only said that Miss Benedict
referred to her as "the lady in there who is not very well." But why
conceal so carefully just an ordinary invalid?

"You never can tell, though," remarked Janet, decisively, one night when
they had been discussing the matter with Aunt Minerva. "Were you ever
more stunned, Marcia, than at the reason she gave for having all the
shutters closed? I think it was the most pitiful thing I ever heard, I
could just have sat and _cried_ about it. And it was so different from
all the awful things we'd imagined. Perhaps there is just as good a
reason for this other mystery."

"But what puzzles me," broke in Aunt Minerva, impatiently, "is why that
woman, if she's so wealthy, doesn't go to a good oculist and have some
treatment for her eyes. They can do such wonders nowadays. Why on earth
does she endure it? I never heard of anything so silly!"

"I suppose it's for the same reason that she wouldn't have a doctor when
she hurt her ankle," said Marcia. "She evidently doesn't want a stranger
in the house, even for such important things as those."

One day Cecily asked Marcia why she never brought in her violin since
the occasion of the first visit, and requested that she bring it with
her next day and give them a concert.

So on the following day Marcia came armed with her violin case and also
an interesting new book from the library that she thought Cecily would
enjoy.

"Let's read the book first," Cecily elected. So, sitting in the secluded
corner of the garden, the three spent a happy morning, reading aloud,
turn about, while the others worked at their embroidery. At last, when
all were tired, Cecily begged Marcia to play, and she laid her book
aside and took up the violin.

"What shall I play?" she asked. "Something lively?"

"No," said Cecily. "Play something soft and sweet and dreamy. I feel
just in that mood to-day. It's too hot for lively things."

Marcia played the Liszt "Liebestraum," and a lovely setting of the old
Scotch song "Loch Lomond," and after that the "Melody in F." And then,
at Cecily's entreating glance, she drifted, as usual, into the
"Träumerei."

"Do you know," said Cecily, when she had ended, "I believe I must have
heard that thing when I was a baby. It's the only reason I can think of
that it seems so--so familiar. And yet--unless I'd heard it a great,
great many times then, I don't think it would have made such an
impression on me. And where could I have heard it? Play it again,
Marcia, please."

Marcia obligingly began, but she had gone no farther than the first few
measures when the door opened and Miss Benedict appeared. She seemed
very much agitated, and her bonnet and veil, donned in an evident hurry,
were slightly awry.

"I beg you," she began, turning to Marcia, "not to play any more.
I--er--it is--is not because it is not beautiful, but it is--is slightly
disturbing to--some one inside."

"Why, of course I won't, Miss Benedict," said Marcia, dropping her bow.
"I wouldn't have done such a thing if I'd dreamed it would disturb any
one."

"It isn't--it isn't that _I_ don't love it," stammered Miss Benedict,
"for I do. But it seems to be very upsetting to--" She hesitated, just
a fraction of a moment, and then seemed to take a sudden resolution.

"--to my sister!" she ended flutteringly, as though the simple admission
carried something damaging with it. It required strong self-control for
the three girls not to exchange glances.

"Oh, I hope I haven't done her any harm!" cried Marcia, contritely.

"No--she--it has just made her a little nervous. She will be all right
soon, I trust. But I noticed that it had the same effect--before," went
on Miss Benedict. "I fear I shall have to ask you not--not to play again
in her hearing. And I am very sorry, both for Cecily--and myself." And
she retreated into the house again, closing the door softly.

On the way back to luncheon that noon the girls excitedly discussed the
newest turn of affairs and the newest revelation made by their strange
neighbor. And so absorbed were they in this fresh interest and so
anxious to impart it to Aunt Minerva that they scarcely noticed she was
laboring under a suppressed excitement quite as great as their own.
Indeed, she paid but scant attention to their recital; and when they had
finished, her only comment was:

"Very odd--very odd indeed. But you never can guess about the news _I_
have!"

"No, no! Of course I can't guess. Tell us--quick!" cried Marcia,
impatiently. "It's something wonderful, I know!"

Miss Minerva made no reply, but suddenly laid a wireless telegram before
them. Marcia snatched it up and read aloud:

      "_Change of sailing-plans. Will be home in two days._

  "EDWIN BRETT."

"Hurrah! hurrah!" she cried. "Father's coming! A whole two months before
we expected him! _Now_ we'll hear something about the bracelet--and who
knows what will happen after that!"




CHAPTER XIV

THE WRITING ON THE BRACELETS


In the joy of seeing her father after months of absence Marcia almost
forgot the mystery of Benedict's Folly. Almost--but not quite!

Captain Brett had been at home twenty-four hours, and had had time to
give an account of all the intervening weeks, before the subject was
broached. Then the next morning, with a great air of mystery, the two
girls and Aunt Minerva made him sit down and listen to the entire story.
At its conclusion they produced the two filigree bracelets for his
inspection.

"H'm!" he exclaimed, and, whistling softly under his breath, examined
them with minute care. And then, being a man of few words, he only
remarked: "So you think these were once a pair?"

"Why, of course!" cried Marcia. "Don't you?"

"It looks remarkably like it," he conceded.

"Do tell us how you happened to get yours!" she begged.

"There's nothing much to tell," replied Captain Brett. "Happened to be
in Hong-Kong one day, and a ragged-looking Chinese sailor thrust this
under my nose and whined that he'd let me have it for two Mexican
dollars. They're always trying to get rid of things like this when they
want some spare cash. One never knows where they pick them up. I didn't
want the trinket particularly, but I saw that it was a unique little
piece and worth probably much more. So I bought it, tucked it away in my
trunk, and forgot it till I arrived home, when I gave it to you,
Minerva. That's all I know about it."

"How long ago was that?" asked Janet.

"Must have been at least twelve years ago. I'm not sure of the exact
year."

"But what do these things mean?" questioned Miss Minerva, pointing to
the strange characters in the silver-work.

"They're Chinese characters, certainly, but I don't know what they mean.
You see them on lots of their jewelry and gimcracks--generally mean
'good luck,' or 'happiness,' or some such motto. Can't say whether these
mean anything of that kind or not."

"But tell me, Father, don't you honestly believe that if we could get
these translated--find out what they mean--it might give us _some_ clue
to the puzzle?" Marcia appealed to him.

"It might--or it might not," he answered skeptically. "So many of these
characters might be meaningless, as far as any personal application was
concerned."

"Well, anyway, _could_ we get them translated, just for our own
satisfaction?" demanded Marcia.

"Nothing simpler!" smiled Captain Brett. "My boatswain is a
Chinese--very learned man--reads his Confucius in off hours! He'd be
sure to help you with it."

"Oh, goody! And when can we have it done?" cried Marcia, aglow with
anticipation.

"Well, you're all coming down to visit the ship to-morrow. Bring the
bracelets along, and I'll see that Lee Ching is on hand to give you his
assistance. But--I warn you--_don't_ count too much on what you may
discover from it! I don't want you to have a bad disappointment."

In spite of which warning, notwithstanding, the girls slept little that
night, so excited were they over the prospect, and, when they did sleep,
dreamed impossible dreams--mainly of quite unintelligible translations
of cryptic Chinese characters.

The visit to Captain Brett's ship, _The Empress of Oran_, would have
been an event, apart from any other interest involved in the expedition.
Marcia and Janet had never in their lives been on board of an ocean
steamer. Even the approach to it was fascinating,--the long, covered
wharves with their strange, spicy odors, the bustle and activity of
loading and unloading, the narrow gangways, the dark waist of the
vessel, and the immaculate white paint of the decks.

They examined every inch of the huge steamer, from the stoking-room to
the donkey-engines on the forecastle deck, and spent half an hour in the
cozy, tiny cabin that was the captain's own, marveling at the
compactness and handiness of every detail.

When they all went up to the after-deck for luncheon, which was served
under an awning, Marcia and Janet could scarcely eat for watching the
deft, silent, sphinxlike Chinese cook who waited on them. They tasted
strange dishes that day, some of which, like curry and rice, were
scarcely acceptable to their unaccustomed palates.

"Now," said the captain, in the middle of the meal, "if we were only out
on the China Sea or bowling along over the Pacific, this would be just
right. You'd have more of an appetite in that salt air than you do
hemmed in by these noisy docks!"

But it was not the docks that had stolen away the appetites of Marcia
and Janet. They were boiling with impatience to see the boatswain, that
student of Confucius, who could, perhaps, throw some new light on their
mystery. Ambrosia and nectar for luncheon would scarcely have appealed
to them under the circumstances!

At last, however, the meal was ended with the curious little Chinese
nuts whose meat is almost like a raisin. Then, when the table was
cleared and the captain had lit his cigar, he spoke the word that caused
their hearts to jump and their eyes to brighten:

"Now I suppose you want to see Lee Ching!" He beckoned to a sailor and
sent him to find the boatswain.

Lee Ching arrived with promptitude, saluted his captain, and stood
gravely at attention. He was not a young man, and he had a decidedly
Oriental, mask-like face. It seemed strange that he should be dressed in
the conventional boatswain's uniform, with peaked cap and the whistle of
his office. One could imagine him better in some brilliant-hued,
wide-sleeved Chinese garment, with a long pig-tail down his back.

"Lee Ching," said the captain, "these young ladies are very much
interested in these two bracelets that have come into their possession.
The characters on them, you see, are in your language. We wonder if you
will be so kind as to translate them for us?"

Lee Ching took the trinkets and examined them minutely. Presently he
asked:

"Will ladies have what say by word of mouth?" The captain was about to
answer yes, and then changed his mind:

"No. It may be rather important, and we want to remember it accurately.
We would be obliged if you would write it out."

Lee Ching nodded gravely. "Will captain permit I retire to cabin?" he
requested, and on being dismissed, he retreated with a formal bow.

"But _can_ he write English?" cried Marcia, when he had disappeared.

"Of course he can, better than he can speak it!" laughed the captain.
"English is child's play compared to that brain-paralyzing language of
his! I must say, though, that Lee Ching is rather unusual--as Chinese
sailors go. He's studied in the University of Pekin, reads and writes
English well, and never speaks Pidgin-English. Why he's spending his
life as boatswain of a trading-steamer I don't know. He's fitted for far
different things. But I have an idea it's on account of his health that
he follows the sea."

The time before Lee Ching's reappearance seemed to the girls
interminable, though, in all probability, it was not more than fifteen
minutes.

At last, however, he returned, laid the bracelets and a slip of paper in
the captain's hand, and was about to retire.

"One moment!" said Captain Brett. "Is the writing on the two bracelets
the same?"

[Illustration: "Words on two bracelets are Identical," replied Lee
Ching, precisely]

"Words on two bracelets are identical," replied Lee Ching, precisely.

"That is all, then, and thank you!" And the captain dismissed him.

"Oh, _read_ it," cried Marcia, "or I shall die of impatience!" and
she hung over his shoulder while he read aloud Lee Ching's queer,
angular handwriting.

[Illustration: Writing: "From the maker of melodies to the flower-maiden
on this day of their wedding. Amoy, Sept. 25, 1889."]

When he had finished, a blank look crept over the expectant faces of the
two girls.

"Is _that_ all?" cried Janet. And Marcia exclaimed, "Why, how
disappointing! It doesn't tell us a single thing!"

"Wait a minute," said the captain, tugging thoughtfully at his short
mustache, while he studied the paper, "I'm not so sure of that!"




CHAPTER XV

PUZZLING IT OUT


"To begin with," Captain Brett went on after a long and (to Janet and
Marcia) very trying pause, "we've something to hold on to in just the
date--Sept 25, 1889--and Amoy."

"What's Amoy, anyway?" demanded Marcia.

"It's a large seaport in the province of Fu-kien, China, and I've
stopped there many a time myself. Then there's the date of this wedding.
Somebody might possibly remember it. There's just the faintest chance."

"But there aren't any names given," argued Marcia. "And besides, there
must be hundreds of Chinese weddings going on all the time. I don't
believe you could find any one who could remember just this particular
one!"

"There are one or two things about this you don't understand, Marcia.
First place, I'm almost certain this isn't any Chinese wedding referred
to here. The Chinese don't do things that way. I know a little about
their customs. It's English or American. You can bank on _that_!

"Another thing--about the names. I'm pretty sure that this contains both
names--at least the ones the parties went by in China. You see, the
Chinese have no equivalents in their language for such names as Jones or
Robinson or Brett, for instance. What they do is to take some
characteristic of a person, and give him a name signifying that
characteristic. I strongly suspect that whatever words in Chinese stand
for 'maker of melodies' and 'flower-maiden' are the names the man and
woman were known by there."

"Then," interrupted Janet, who had been doing some rapid thinking, "the
man must have been some kind of a musician, and the woman may have loved
flowers, or looked like a flower, or something of that sort."

"I think it extremely likely," agreed the captain.

"_Maker of melodies--musician!_" cried Marcia, suddenly hopping up from
her deck-chair in excitement. "Does that make you think of anything?"

The captain and Janet both looked rather mystified and shook their
heads.

"Why, _Cecily_, of course!" exclaimed Marcia. "Don't you remember how
she adores music--and always seems to be remembering something about
that 'Träumerei'? I'll warrant--just anything--that these people who got
married were some relation to her! And besides, didn't she have one of
the bracelets?"

"It looks as if you _had_ run down a clue," admitted Captain Brett. "But
I'm sorry to say it doesn't help us much in discovering who these
contracting parties were. One point, however, I think it seems to
settle--the question whether the bracelet came into the possession of
your little friend in some such manner as I got the other, or whether it
was hers by right as a family trinket. I believe the latter--almost
beyond question. But now comes the difficulty. How are we going to
unearth anybody who has any remembrance of--"

Marcia suddenly inspired with an idea, interrupted: "Why not ask Lee
Ching? He's Chinese. Who knows but what he came from just that region?"

"Nothing like trying," said the captain. "I don't know what province he
hails from, but it won't hurt to ask." And he sent a sailor to summon
Lee Ching once more. When he appeared the captain put his first
question:

"Lee Ching, what province did you come from?"

"Fu-kien," came the answer, promptly, and the girls' hopes were raised
sky-high.

"Did you ever live in Amoy?"

"No, never lived there--always in hills back beyond."

"Well, do you, by any chance, happen to know anything about the parties
spoken of in that bracelet translation?"

"No. Was at sea at date mentioned. Young man then--not very well on dry
land. Must live on ship always--or not live. Never was acquainted with
parties mentioned."

"Thank you. That is all, Lee Ching."

The bright hopes of the girls were considerably dampened, but Marcia was
not to be downed.

"Anyway," she argued, "you've other Chinese sailors on board. Why
couldn't we question them all? We might find _some_ one who knows."

The captain was rather dubious about it. "Yes, the cook and four sailors
are Chinese. You can question them if you like, but I'm afraid it won't
be much satisfaction. They're an appallingly ignorant lot! But I'll have
them summoned."

In a few moments the five were lined up, and, true to the captain's
estimate, a hopeless-looking lot they were. After much confused
questioning in Pidgin-English it developed that the cook and two sailors
were from the province of Shansi, a third from Kiang-su, and the two
others from nowhere in particular that they could seem to remember.
None of them knew anything about Amoy beyond the squalid shops about the
wharves.

The captain dismissed them all with a disgusted wave of his hand and
turned to the girls.

"You see how worse than useless it is to try and find out anything from
such sources! I knew it would be so, but I didn't want to discourage
you. Now you just leave me to myself for half an hour to smoke in peace
and do a little thinking. Go and look at them unloading, or roam around
and amuse yourselves in any way you like. Perhaps, if I rack my brains
hard, something will occur to me."

They left him pacing up and down on the deck, puffing at his cigar,
while they went to explore the great ship all over again. But the
occupation, though fascinating, failed to keep their thoughts from the
latest phase of the queer mystery that surrounded Cecily Marlowe.

"Do you know," said Marcia, as they stood looking down into the well of
the vast engine-room, "it seems simply impossible to me to connect
lovely, dainty, English Cecily with anything so oriental as China. I
can't understand it. I can't imagine any connection. Can you?"

"No, I can't," admitted Janet. "And, more than that, where does Miss
Benedict come in on this Chinese proposition? Nothing could be less
connected with it than she! I believe she'd have a fit if she ever saw
that awful-looking crowd of Chinese sailors your father had there a
while ago. Did you ever see such a rascally looking lot? And poor little
Cecily would be horrified!"

"I liked Lee Ching, though. He's so grave and serious and dignified. And
isn't his English fascinating? I just love to hear him talk. But oh, I
wish Father hadn't sent us away for half an hour! I can hardly wait for
the time to pass! Let's go and look at those men on the dock unloading.
Why do they make such a racket? You'd think there was a fire or
something!"

So they whiled away the time, and at last, promptly on the minute, raced
back to Captain Brett.

"Well?" demanded Marcia, breathless. "What now?"

"Just had a happy thought!" The captain threw the stump of his finished
cigar over the rail. "I've been trying to think whom I could remember
meeting in China during the past years--some responsible person who
might know these people or be able to track them down. Suddenly recalled
old Major Goodrich. He was an English military attaché stationed at
Hong-Kong for a while, and I got to know him rather well. He was retired
some years ago, and the last I heard of him he was living in this
country, somewhere in Pennsylvania, with his only daughter, who happened
to have married an American. If anybody were likely to know anything
about this business it would be he, for he knew everybody and everything
worth knowing about in Amoy at the time. I'll look up his address and
write to him to-night. Now I hope that satisfies you both!"

"Father, you're a trump!" cried Marcia, blissfully. "I _knew_ you'd get
right to the bottom of this mystery at once."

"Hold on! Don't count your chickens before they're hatched!" warned the
captain. "This is only a possibility--not a _probability_. The major may
know nothing whatever about it. But look here! it's high time we were
heading for home. We don't want to be late to dinner."

They reached the apartment, bursting with news to tell Aunt Minerva, but
were met at the door by that lady, flushed, flustered, and very much
excited.

"Such a state of affairs!" she cried. "An hour ago I received a telegram
from Cousin Drusilla in Northam saying she was very ill indeed and
wouldn't I come up at once, as she was virtually all alone. Of course
I've got to go. I can't leave her there sick without a soul to look
after her. But what on earth are you all going to do?"

"Oh, go right along, Minerva! The girls and I will get on famously. They
can try their hand at housekeeping, and you've a good maid in the
kitchen to help. Don't you worry a minute!"

"Yes, but--" began Aunt Minerva.

"You've got just fifteen minutes to catch the Boston express," said the
captain, decisively, looking at his watch. "Give me that suitcase and
come right along."

Aunt Minerva, who had really been all packed and ready for the past
twenty-nine minutes, meekly obeyed.

"I won't be gone more than a few days," she remarked, as she kissed the
girls good-by. "I'll get some one to take my place with Drusilla just as
soon as I can. Don't let Eliza boil the corn too long, and tell her--"
The sentence was never finished, for the captain at that point gently
but firmly led her into the hall and closed the door.

And, though the girls suspected it not, this sudden departure of Aunt
Minerva had more bearing on the mystery they were trying to solve than
any of them dreamed!




CHAPTER XVI

ONE MYSTERY EXPLAINED


Meantime, Cecily Marlowe, immured in the lonely house, had been having
an experience all her own. And when the girls came to see her, the day
after the visit to the ship, she too was bursting with news. But she
quietly waited till they had told their own tale, and was as puzzled as
they about the strange translation of the characters on the bracelet. Of
anything pertaining to China or the Chinese she had not the remotest
notion, and could not understand how it could have any connection with
her affairs.

"Now you must hear _my_ story," she began, when they had discussed the
newest development till there was nothing left to discuss. "It's about
Miss Benedict. She has--but just wait, and I'll begin at the beginning.
It was two nights ago, and she had one of those headaches. She has
such very bad ones, you know. She says they are from her poor eye-sight,
and she suffers terribly.

"Well, she had a worse one than usual, and so she was obliged to call me
into her room and ask me to fetch things for her. I sat by her and
bathed her head and fanned her, and at last she fell asleep. Even then I
didn't go away, but sat there fanning and fanning her for a long time,
till finally, after a couple of hours, she woke up.

"She was very much better then, and presently she began to talk to me
quite differently from what she ever had before. First she asked me if I
were contented and happy here. I said I tried to be, but I was very
lonely sometimes. She didn't say much to that, but suddenly she spoke
again:

[Illustration: "Child, I suppose you wonder very much at this queer life
I lead!"]

"'Child, I suppose you wonder very much at this queer life I lead, don't
you?' I said, yes, I couldn't help wondering about it. Then she turned
away her head and whispered:

"'Oh, if you only _knew_, you would not wonder! I have been very
unhappy. My life has been very unhappy!' All I could think of to answer
her was that I was so sorry, and she need not tell me anything she
didn't wish to. I would never ask about it. And she raised herself up in
bed, and said:

"'That's just it, dear child. I have always supposed that young folks
were one and all curious, inquisitive, and thoughtless. That is one
reason I was so--so strict with you--in the beginning. But you and those
two nice girls next door have been a revelation to me.'

"Wasn't that lovely of her?" exclaimed Cecily, interrupting herself.

"Just darling!" cried Marcia. "But do go on, Cecily. We're crazy to hear
what came next!"

"Well, next she said: 'People think I live a very singular life, I know.
They think I'm eccentric--queer--crazy, even! Oh, _I_ know it! But there
are few alive to-day--and none in this neighborhood--who even guess at
the real reason, who--remember!' And then she put her hand to her head
as if it was aching badly, and dropped back on the pillow. She was very
quiet for a while, but at last she looked up again and said: 'Little
Cecily, would you care to have a home with me always? Would you be
willing to put up with my queerness and peculiarities, and some of the
strange conditions here?' And I answered, indeed, yes; if I could go out
once in a while and visit you girls occasionally, I should very much
like to stay. And she said:

"'Of course you shall, dear. You have been dreadfully shut in here, but
that was before I knew you so well. I was not sure I _wanted_ to keep
you before, but now I know that I do. I only ask you to be as
considerate of me as you can. Some day, I feel certain, I shall lose my
sight. I know that it is coming. When it does come, I shall have to
depend very, very much on you. I and one other. You will not fail me
then, will you, Cecily?'

"Girls, I could have cried then and there--I felt so _sorry_ for her.
And I told her she could _always_ depend on me, no matter what happened.
I had no other home and no one else to care for me except you girls.
And after that she told me the story about herself--at least, some of
it. I can't tell it in her words, so I'll use my own. But this is it:

"A great many years ago, when this house was new, she lived here with
her father and an older sister and a younger brother. They were all very
happy together, and the brother was the pride and joy and hope of the
whole family. But one time he had a violent disagreement with his father
(she didn't tell me what it was about), and she and her sister took
sides with her father against the brother. After that they had the same
disagreement a great many times, and at last one so bad that the young
man declared he wouldn't endure it any longer, and threatened to leave
home.

"They didn't believe he was really serious about it, but the next
morning his room was vacant, and a note pinned to his pillow said he had
gone away never to return. They felt awfully about it, of course, but
that wasn't the worst. About two weeks later they received word that he
had taken passage on a steamer for Europe, and after only a day or so
out he was discovered to be missing, so he must have fallen overboard,
or been washed over and drowned. Wasn't that frightful?"

Janet and Marcia looked horrified. "What did she do then?" they
whispered.

"That's the most dreadful part," went on Cecily. "The shock was so great
that the father died a week afterward--the doctors said virtually of a
broken heart. So there were two gone, and within a month. The two that
were left, Miss Benedict and her sister, shut themselves up and went
into mourning and saw almost no one. For a while they were paralyzed
with grief. And then, little by little, very gradually, they began to
realize that people were talking about them--saying dreadful things. One
of the few friends they _did_ see let drop little hints of the gossip
that was going on outside. People were saying that they were to blame
for it all, and that they probably weren't so sorry as they pretended to
be, for now they could enjoy all the money themselves. Can you imagine
anything so horrid?"

"Oh, but that's nonsense!" interrupted Janet impatiently. "How could any
one say it was their fault?"

"Well, you know how people talk," replied Cecily. "They meant that by
nagging and quarreling they had driven the brother away on purpose, and
then made it so unpleasant for the father that he couldn't stand it any
longer either. It wasn't said in so many words, but just little hints
and allusions and shrugging shoulders and all that sort of thing. But
the meaning was there underneath it all, as plain as anything.

"Their grief and the horrid talk about them made them feel so very badly
that they determined to live in such a way that no one could accuse them
of enjoying an ill-gotten fortune. So they shut up the house,--at least
a large part of it,--and dismissed all their servants, and did most of
the work themselves. After a while the few friends they had began to
drop away, one by one, till no one came to see them any more.

"And then one day, two or three years later, the older sister had a
paralytic stroke and lost her memory. She's been shut up in that room
ever since, and Miss Benedict takes care of her. She can sit up in a
chair and knit, and she likes to have a chess-board on her lap, and move
the pieces around, because she once loved to play the game with her
younger brother. But she can't remember anything--not even who she is
herself, and nothing about what has happened. Miss Benedict feels
terribly about her, especially about her not remembering anything, and
she says that is why she didn't tell me about her at first. It seemed so
terrible.

"She says all the friends and relatives they had are dead and gone now,
so no one knows the real reason for their queer life. And as the years
have passed she has grown more and more into the habit of living this
way till it seemed quite natural to her--at least it did till I came;
and now she is beginning to realize again that it _is_ queer. And she
was so afraid of gossip and talk that when you first wanted to be
friends with me she would not allow it, for fear of starting more
unpleasant inquiries into her life."

"But what about her poor eyes?" asked Janet.

"Oh, yes! About ten years ago she began to have those terrible pains in
her eyes, and then she had to darken all the house and wear the veil and
dark glasses outdoors. She went to a doctor about them, but was told
that the case was hopeless unless she had some complicated operation and
spent months in a dark room. This she felt she couldn't do on account of
her sister, whom she _would_ not leave to a stranger's care. So she has
just suffered ever since.

"That's all, girls, except that she told me her sister's name is
Cornelia and that hers is Alixe. I'm to call her Miss Alixe after this.
It makes me seem a little nearer to her."

"What a pretty name--Alixe!" commented Marcia. "It just seems to suit
her, somehow. But isn't that the saddest story? It just goes to show how
unhappy we can make people by talking about them and their affairs."

"And oh! there's one thing more. Miss Benedict--I mean Miss Alixe--gave
me permission to tell you all this, but she only asks that you will not
repeat it except to your father and aunt. She says she knows you can be
depended on to do this."

That day, before Janet and Marcia left, they encountered Miss Benedict
in the hall. And, by the way she pressed their hands in saying good-by
they felt that she knew Cecily had told them her story, though she made
no reference to it.

"Cecily may run in and visit you a while to-morrow. I think the change
will do her good," she remarked at parting. And that was the only hint
she gave of a change in the affairs of "Benedict's Folly."

When Janet and Marcia were at last outside the gate they gazed up at the
forbidding brick wall and drew a long breath of wonder.

"So _that_ is the story!" breathed Marcia. "What an awful thing--that
two people's lives should be spoiled just by unkind gossip!"

But Janet was thinking of something else. "I wonder why Miss Benedict
didn't tell what the family had the disagreement about!" she queried.




CHAPTER XVII

MAJOR GOODRICH ASSISTS


During the week following Aunt Minerva's departure, the two girls had a
busy life, taking charge of the unaccustomed tasks of housekeeping.

But with all their absorbing occupations, the three were waiting on
tiptoe of expectation for a reply from Major Goodrich. And even Captain
Brett could scarcely conceal his impatience as the days went by and no
answer came.

At last one morning the mail-box contained a letter postmarked from
Pennsylvania, and Marcia carried it upstairs two steps at a time.

It was from the major. He wrote:

      Is there any way you can think of to furnish me with an idea of
      what the Chinese for that expression, "maker of melodies,"
      _sounds_ like? The only way that occurs to me is to see whether,
      by any faint chance, Lee Ching could write it in that Romanized
      Colloquial, used by the missionaries. That might give me an idea.
      It's a hundred chances to one, he doesn't know it. If so, just
      spell it out for me yourself in English--the nearest you can get
      to it.

      The reason I want to know it is this: there was a young fellow in
      Hong-Kong at the British military station, a military aide of
      promise, who had a magnificent singing voice. Every one went wild
      over him there. He was the life of the garrison and in social
      circles as well. Many an evening we spent listening to one of his
      impromptu recitals. But what makes me suspect that he may be the
      one we're after is that he foolishly went and married the daughter
      of a Chinese mandarin from one of the Hong-Kong yamêns. He had
      been the means of rendering the father some very important
      service, and met the daughter quite by accident. The whole affair
      was a rather remarkable story, but I haven't time to detail it all
      to you now.

      I saw the girl just once--afterward. She was a fascinating little
      creature, with the golden butterfly pins in her black hair, and
      her rich silk robe hung with jewels, and her tiny bound feet. But
      the young fellow's family back in England was furious about it.
      Eventually, he cut loose from them entirely. Then he and his wife
      drifted away from the Hong-Kong region up to Amoy, and finally
      dropped out of sight. I imagine he adopted the Chinese customs and
      habits and got to live at last very much like a native. I've never
      heard of him since, but I've a notion he could be hunted up if
      he's still alive. His name was Carringford--Jack Carringford, we
      used to call him.

      The point, however, is that the Chinese called him by a name of
      their own, signifying "eminent singer," or something of that
      sort--very much the same kind of expression as that used on the
      bracelet. And after a while we all got to calling him by it--or
      some abbreviation of it--pretty regularly. I can't recall just
      what it was now, for I haven't thought of it in years. But I
      believe I'd recognize it if I saw it written out in Colloquial or
      any other English version! Get me that, and I'll soon put you on
      the right track!

      Mightn't the little girl possibly be the daughter of Carringford?

"No, she _mightn't_!" interrupted Marcia, indignantly, at this point.
"Does Cecily Marlowe look like a Chinese mandarin's daughter's
daughter?" And certainly, with her golden curls and big blue eyes and
the English roses in her cheeks, they had to admit that she did not!

"And besides that," added Janet, "her name isn't _Carringford_!"

"That doesn't always signify," remarked the captain. "It looks to me
like a rather clear case if we find that the Chinese name agrees with
the major's recollection of it. I'd go down to the ship to-day, but Lee
Ching is on shore leave, and won't be back till to-morrow. I'll see him
then, and find out whether he knows anything about this Romanized
Colloquial. I rather doubt it myself. It's not much used outside of the
missions, I understand."

"What _is_ 'Romanized Colloquial,' anyway?" demanded Marcia. "It sounds
very mysterious!"

"No, it isn't a bit mysterious," answered Captain Brett. "In order to
understand about it, however, you must know this fact about the Chinese
language. The _written_ character is the same--_means_ the same--all
over the kingdom. But it isn't _pronounced_ the same in any of the
different provinces. In fact, the spoken dialects are like entirely
different languages. It seems that the dialect of the Fu-kien province
has been reduced to a written form by the missionaries and called
Romanized Colloquial. It has been in use for a good many years, but it
isn't especially recognized by official or diplomatic circles. But a
good many of the Chinese boys who attend the mission-schools learn it
there. It's just possible that Lee Ching may have done so, as he came
from that region. We can only wait and see. If he doesn't know it, he
_may_ be able to write out the Chinese equivalent in some form of
English script."

The next day the captain went down to the _Empress of Oran_ and returned
with a beaming face and a sheet of paper written on by Lee Ching.

"He knew it all right!" he announced. "Learned it as a boy in the
mission-school at _Chiang-chiu_. Here's what he wrote." And he held the
sheet of paper for the girls to see. "He's put the Chinese characters at
one side. They have to be read from top to bottom, you know. Next to
them is the Romanized Colloquial, and alongside of that the English
translation. Quite a pretty piece of work that!"

[Illustration]

"Gracious!" cried Marcia, frowning over the queer jargon. "I can't make
a thing out of it--or at least I couldn't if he hadn't put the English
right alongside of the others. Oh, this must be the name!--'chok-gàk ê
lâng'-'maker of melodies.' Did you _ever_ hear of such heathenish
sounds? Well, now we'll see what Major Goodrich has to say to that.
Father, will you send it right off to him?"

"At once!" announced the captain. "I'm just about as anxious as you
folks, now, to get this mystery explained."

But the singular thing was that somehow the girls could not bring
themselves to tell Cecily much about these latest developments. They
thought it would make her feel strange and anxious to realize that there
was a possibility of her being in any way related to a Chinese
mandarin's daughter.

"And besides," remarked Janet, suddenly, when they were discussing it,
"that's perfectly impossible, anyway, because her mother was English,
and Cecily has lived with her all these years. So this talk about
mandarin's daughters and things is perfectly ridiculous!"

"That's so!" echoed Marcia, in relief. "I didn't think of it at first.
But, anyway, let's not tell Cecily about it till we know more. I do wish
Aunt Minerva were here! I haven't written her about all this because
there's so much to explain. I'd rather wait and tell her when she gets
back. She said she was only going to be gone a little while, and here
it's nearly two weeks!"

In three days an answer arrived from the major, and, as luck would have
it, Cecily herself brought the letter upstairs with her as she came in.

"The postman was just going to drop it in your box," she explained, "and
I asked him to let me take it to you, and save you the trouble of coming
down for it." And she held it out to the captain.

"Aha!" he cried, as he caught sight of the writing. "_Now_ we'll hear
some news! Why--what's the matter?" He had just glimpsed Marcia and
Janet frantically signaling to him behind Cecily's back. "Don't you
want me to open it?"

"Oh, not now," explained Marcia, as nonchalantly as she could. "I want
Cecily to come out to the kitchen and help us make some fudge. Later
will do." And she dragged the wondering Cecily down the hall, while the
captain stared after them muttering, "Well! of all the--"

Cecily stayed rather late that afternoon. And for the first time in all
their acquaintance, the girls were not sorry to have her go, so wild
with anxiety were they to hear the major's letter. No sooner had the
door closed upon her than they rushed back to the captain.

"What does he say?" they clamored.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE MAJOR HAS A FURTHER INSPIRATION


The captain, who was puffing at his pipe, appeared serious. "I don't
like the looks of this thing at all," he muttered, reaching in his
pocket for the letter.

"But what did he say? Tell us quick!" cried Marcia. "We've been nearly
crazy there in the kitchen waiting to have Cecily go so we could hear
what he says!"

"Well, I'm glad she did go first," acknowledged the captain, "for
somehow I wouldn't care to have her hear just yet what the major has to
say. He thinks-- But I'll read his letter, and you can understand what I
mean. Here it is:

      "About the Chinese name first. The one you sent does certainly
      have a familiar sound to me, especially the last two syllables. I
      distinctly remember that the name Jack Carringford was called by
      ended in _e lang_, or something that sounded amazingly like it. I
      wouldn't bank on that entirely, however, for the Chinese language
      is the most confusing and idiotic jargon ever invented by the mind
      of man, and there might be a dozen other words ending the same and
      meaning something entirely different.

      "Here's a fact more to the point, though. Since writing to you
      last I've been busy communicating with several old chums of the
      China days. What I've been trying to find out is, does any one
      know what has become of Carringford? By the third year after his
      unfortunate marriage he had pretty well dropped out of sight.
      Still, I thought I knew of one or two who might have kept some
      track of him even after that. One of them, Danforth Pettingill, an
      old chum of Jack's, is now living in New York, and I thought he'd
      probably know as much as any one. So I wrote him at the very
      start, and yesterday received this answer. It seems that
      Carringford and his wife lived with her father for some time--till
      about two years after their marriage, when a little daughter was
      born. Then the old mandarin, who was fearfully annoyed because the
      baby was not a boy (girls being of no earthly account in China, as
      you know!), made it so unpleasant for the couple that they finally
      left his establishment. It was then that they began their roaming
      existence, terribly hampered by the baby, of course, and never
      remaining long in any city.

      "At last, the wife contracted the plague and died very suddenly,
      and Carringford was left alone with the baby on his hands. It was
      at this time that he dropped completely out of sight, and
      Pettingill never heard from him again. He thinks, however, from
      very substantial rumor, that Carringford went back to England,
      taking the child with him. He didn't go to his own folks, though,
      that's certain; for Pettingill has heard from them occasionally,
      and they never mention him. There was another rumor afloat about
      him for a time, that he had taken to earning his living by singing
      at cheap concerts under an assumed name. All of which might be
      entirely likely. But what became of the child, Pettingill never
      knew--nor any one else, I'm afraid. Well, that's all I've
      ascertained up to date, but I'm still on the track, and if I hear
      any further news, I'll let you know at once."

When the captain stopped reading, all of them looked very serious, and
no one said a word for several minutes.

"You see," he began at last, "why I don't like the looks of the thing.
This seems to cover almost all the points we've been in doubt about,
though of course, it _does_ leave quite a little to conjecture. I
somehow dislike to think of little Cecily as a mixture of Chinese and
English. In fact, it's almost impossible to think of her as such. And
yet it seems remarkably near the truth."

"If that man assumed a name," interrupted Marcia, "I suppose it might as
easily be Marlowe as anything else."

"Just as easily," admitted Captain Brett.

"And he went back to England--just where Cecily came here from," added
Janet, lugubriously.

"But then why doesn't Cecily remember something about him?" cried
Marcia, hopefully.

"He may have been dead a good while, or he may have sent her off
somewhere else," answered the captain, dashing this hope. "He wouldn't
be likely to drag a child about in any such life as he must have had to
lead."

They all sank into a depressed silence again. Suddenly Marcia had
another idea.

"But look here!" she exclaimed. "Major Goodrich says that man was at
Hong Kong and the bracelet says 'Amoy,' as plain as plain can be. Isn't
that enough proof that it can't be the same one?"

Again the captain had to dampen her hopes. "They might have gone to Amoy
to be married," he said. "It's entirely possible. You can't tell
anything about that."

"And besides," put in Janet, "you got the bracelet at Hong Kong, didn't
you, Captain Brett? So if it really belonged to those people, it was
still pretty near home."

"Well, it is useless to conjecture about these things," added the
captain. "What bothers me most of all is the question of what earthly
connection all this can have with Miss Benedict. There doesn't seem to
be the least likelihood that the Carringfords were any relations of
hers, and unless Cecily was simply sent there on a chance, because it
was known that she was a wealthy woman and might be willing to provide
for the child, I'm quite at a loss to explain it."

"I wonder if there is any way we could find out?" mused Marcia.

"I know a very good way," declared Janet. "Simply ask her."

"What? And explain all this strange business about Cecily's parents
right away?" demanded Marcia.

"Oh, no! Just ask her if she ever had any connections in England named
Carringford. She'll say either yes or no to that. And if she says yes,
why then we'll know we are on the right track and can think what to do
next."

"Janet's advice is pretty good," asserted Captain Brett. "And if I were
you, I'd put the question to Miss Benedict the next time you see her.
It's about the only way I can think of now to solve this riddle."

And so it was decided that the very next day, when the girls expected to
go and visit Cecily, they should ask Miss Benedict the dread question.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cecily met them at the gate the next afternoon. "Oh, I'm so glad you've
come!" she cried. "I'm really very lonely. Miss Benedict is going to be
away all the afternoon because she has some business to attend to. She
says we can sit in the garden."

At this piece of news the girls' faces fell.

"Why, what's the matter?" questioned Cecily. "Don't you care to? I
thought you'd be rather pleased."

"Indeed, it will be fine!" declared Marcia, striving to hide her
disappointment at the news that Miss Benedict would not be visible that
day. She and Janet had counted so positively on having one at least, of
their vexed questions settled immediately that it was difficult to feel
they must wait two or three days more. For on the morrow Cecily was to
visit them, as they now spent alternate days in each others' houses, and
the day after, Captain Brett had promised to take the three of them on a
trip up the Hudson.

All that afternoon, however, Marcia and Janet were noticeably
inattentive and absent-minded. Once Marcia, who was reading aloud to the
others, stopped short in the middle of a sentence, and remained for
three whole minutes gazing off at nothing. And at this, Cecily could
contain her wonder no longer.

"Girls, are you, by any chance--annoyed at me?" she ventured. Marcia
suddenly dragged herself back to the affairs of the moment.

"Of course not, deary. How could you think such a thing?" she declared
heartily.

"Then something else is the matter," insisted Cecily. "You are worrying
about something. I never knew you to act so strangely. Now tell me,
aren't you?"

Marcia glanced uneasily at Janet. "Well, yes, we are," she admitted
reluctantly. "But please don't ask us anything about it just yet,
Cecily. Something that has come up lately seems kind of queer and--and
unpleasant. But it may turn out all right in the end, so we don't want
to tell you till we know positively."

Cecily looked alarmed. "Is it--is it anything about me?" she faltered.
"But perhaps I oughtn't to ask." Marcia looked terribly unhappy at this
question, and Janet came to her rescue.

"Yes, it is, Cecily," she declared with assumed cheerfulness. "Captain
Brett has stumbled across something that seems as if it might have some
connection with your affairs. But we don't want you to hear about it
till we are positive. Now don't worry about it, because I'm perfectly
certain everything is going to turn out all right. You won't worry, will
you?" She put her arm around Cecily and laid her cheek against the
golden hair.

"No, I'll try not to," Cecily assured them, "and I'll promise not to ask
you another thing about it till you're ready to tell me yourselves."
After that she settled down quietly, but it was apparent to the girls
that, in spite of her assurances, she was worried and nervous and
unhappy. Presently Janet had an inspiration.

"You two sit here. I'm going out for a few moments," she announced,
determined to break the tension of unrest and nervousness by some
diversion. Nor would she reveal to them what her errand was to be. She
returned in twenty minutes, however, with a box of delicious French
ice-cream and some dainty cakes. And for the next half-hour they had a
gay time in the garden, serving and consuming the welcome treat. In the
end they had temporarily quite forgotten the unhappiness of the earlier
hour, and when they returned home the two girls left Cecily laughing and
cheerful.

Nor did she, all through the ensuing two days, refer in any way to their
conversation in the garden. If the matter worried her, she gave no sign,
and the girls could not help admiring her self-control.

Three days later, Marcia and Janet went again to spend the afternoon
with Cecily, and found to their relief that Miss Benedict was at home.
At least, they learned the fact from Cecily. The lady herself they did
not see when they entered. And indeed, there was a chance, that they
might not have so much as a glimpse of her during their visit, for it
frequently happened that she was not visible during an entire afternoon.

Would she speak to them that day? That was the question. And, what was
even more important, would they have a chance to speak to her unobserved
by Cecily? For they did not wish the girl to overhear what they had to
ask, nor even to know that they were seeking an interview with her
guardian.

For the major part of the afternoon it did not seem as if their wish
would be granted. Miss Benedict did not appear, and so nervous and
anxious were they that they could scarcely keep their thoughts on the
conversation that Cecily was striving to keep up or, later, on the book
they were reading. Cecily had declared that her room seemed very warm,
so they were sitting once more in the garden. This also was a
disappointment, for it lessened considerably their chances of seeing the
lady of their hopes.

Half-past five came round, and still they had not attained their wish.
Marcia had just risen, with a resigned sigh, to propose that they take
their departure, when the side door opened and Miss Benedict appeared.
At the sight of her the hearts of Marcia and Janet gave a delighted
thump, and they greeted her with a pleasure, the warmth of which she
could not entirely understand.

But now came the problem of getting Cecily out of the way for a time. It
was evident that she had no intention of leaving them of her own accord.
And it was Marcia's happy idea that solved this riddle.

"Cecily," she suddenly inquired, "do you happen to have finished that
book I lent you last week?"

"Oh, yes! I finished it last night. I meant to return it to-day," said
Cecily. "Wait a moment and I'll get it from my room. You must be anxious
to finish it yourself, I know." And she hurried indoors, unconscious of
the unutterable relief with which they watched her go. When she was out
of sight, Marcia turned to Miss Benedict.

"Please pardon me for asking a personal question," she began hurriedly,
"but it is only because we think it is something that concerns Cecily.
Did you ever have, in England or anywhere, any relatives or--or even
friends by the name of Carringford?" Miss Benedict was bonneted and
veiled as usual, so they could not see her face. And they would have
given much to have been able to read her expression when she heard this
question.

But she answered, very promptly and positively: "No, I never knew of any
one at all by that name. Why do you ask?"

They could hear Cecily's footsteps returning down the stairs.

"Only because we have discovered something in connection with people of
that name, that seems to concern Cecily," Marcia explained hastily.
"Sometime we will tell you all about it. We thought perhaps you'd know
them. Please--please don't tell Cecily we've spoken about it--just yet."
Miss Benedict had only time to signify that she would follow their
request, when Cecily appeared in the doorway and the interview was over.

As they walked home later they both admitted to a feeling of intense
relief that Miss Benedict, at least, knew nothing about any
Carringfords.

"Of course, her not knowing them doesn't _prove_ anything," declared
Janet. "But one thing is certain. If she _had_ known them, it would
have been positive that all this horrid story is connected with Cecily.
But as she doesn't, it gives one more chance that it has nothing to do
with her."

As they entered the hall of the apartment, the captain called out to
them from the living-room:

"Hurry in, girls! There's another letter from the major waiting for
you!"




CHAPTER XIX

THE UNEXPECTED


The major's letter did nothing, however, to lighten the gloom. On the
contrary, it only increased it tenfold. The main substance of it was in
this paragraph:

      It's singular how much you can dig out about a subject, once you
      put your mind to it. I thought at first that I had told you all
      that was known about Jack Carringford and his affairs--all that
      could be discovered. But the deeper I go into it, the more I seem
      to unearth. Yesterday another friend to whom I had written, on the
      off-chance of getting a little information (but from whom I really
      didn't expect much) sent me this bit of news. It seems he heard it
      said that after Carringford went back to England he married again,
      and it is thought that he did not live very long after,--died
      suddenly of pneumonia, or something like it, in an obscure town in
      the north of England. Perhaps this will help you some in your
      amateur detective work. If I glean any more information, I'll let
      you know at once. I rather enjoy this delving into the past.

"Oh, horrors!" exclaimed Marcia. "Could anything be plainer than this is
getting to be? Of course, that explains it all! Cecily didn't remember
her father, and her 'mother' was really her stepmother. I wonder if she
knows it. She never mentioned it, but then she seldom speaks of her
mother, anyway. Though I always thought, from the way she acted, that
she was very fond of her."

"It certainly grows more convincing with every added piece of news we
hear," mused the captain. "I wish we _could_ find some loophole for
thinking that this tangle doesn't concern Cecily. But how on earth she
can have any Chinese ancestry, beats me. She doesn't show a trace of it.
One would certainly think she'd have almond eyes and coarse, straight
hair, or a dark complexion, or _something_! It's the one thing that
gives me the slightest hope that she can't be Carringford's daughter."

"But what shall we do now?" questioned Janet, bringing them back
abruptly to the affairs of the moment.

"The first thing to do," declared Captain Brett, "is to question Cecily
about her father and mother, and see what _she_ knows. She may recall
something that will give us another clue. If this proves to be the right
trail, we've got to follow it up, get into communication with the
Carringfords in England, and see if they will do anything about her.
They ought to be willing to provide for his daughter. But we'll have to
be very sure of our facts, or they'll pay no attention, I suppose.
Somehow or other we'll have to trace out Carringford's career in England
after he returned. I wish I knew the name he assumed, but no one seems
to be able to tell us that."

"But even _still_, we haven't the slightest clue to the reason why
Cecily was sent to Miss Benedict," mused Marcia.

"Why, yes, we have something new now," interrupted Janet. "Hasn't it
occurred to you that Mr. Carringford's second wife might have been some
connection of the Benedicts, or known them, or something?"

"Sure enough! sure enough!" cried the captain, thumping his knee. "This
puts the thing in an entirely new light. We must find out a little more
about that second wife. You get what you can from Cecily, but do be
careful how you question her. The child is sensitive, and was apparently
very fond of the lady she called her mother. Try not to probe too
deeply. And remember to explain to her that you are not asking just out
of idle curiosity, which she'd be perfectly right in resenting."

It was with no very pleasant anticipations that Marcia and Janet looked
forward to their interview with Cecily next afternoon. How to approach
the subject without giving her a clue to the real state of affairs, they
were puzzled to know. Plan after plan they formed, only to reject after
thinking them over. "Suppose Cecily should ask this," or "What if Cecily
should inquire why we say that?" spoiled every outline of the
conversation that they could imagine. At last Janet declared:

"It's perfectly useless to think now what we'll say, or what she'll
answer. Let's just wait till the time comes and say what seems best at
the moment. The whole conversation may be entirely different from
anything we plan."

"I guess you're right," sighed Marcia. "I'm tired out thinking about it,
anyhow." And so they put it all aside till Cecily's arrival.

When she came, that afternoon, she found two very serious and thoughtful
friends awaiting her. One thing at least, they had determined,--not to
put off the dreaded interview till later in the day, but have it over at
once and get it off their minds. So when they were all comfortably
seated in Marcia's cozy room, Janet began:

"Cecily, would you mind very much if we asked you a few questions? You
remember, the other day, we said that something had come up concerning
you, we thought, and we would tell you about it later. Well, we aren't
quite ready to tell you _all_ about it yet, but it would help a great
deal if you'd answer a few questions about yourself. Will you?" And she
felt an immense sensation of relief, after these words were spoken, at
having at least taken the first plunge.

"Why, of course!" assented Cecily, wonderingly. "That is, if I possibly
can."

"And you'll remember that we aren't asking just out of curiosity, but
because it may help to untangle your affairs?" interrupted Marcia,
anxiously. Cecily only smiled and squeezed her hand, as if an answer to
that were unnecessary.

"Well, dear," said Janet, in a hesitating voice, "could you tell us
whether you know this: was your father ever married twice?"

Cecily started and flushed a little. "Oh, I--I don't know anything about
such a thing!" she murmured. "I--I don't think so. You see, he died
before I remember anything about him, and my mother never spoke of him
to me very much."

"Then she never told you anything about that?" went on Janet.

"No," replied Cecily, very positively.

"Now, I have one more question to ask that I'm afraid may startle you,
but please don't attach too much importance to it. Was the lady you
called mother your real mother or your stepmother?"

This time Cecily fairly jumped. "Oh, no, no!" she cried. "I'm sure, I'm
very sure she was my own mother. She would certainly have told me if she
had not been. I would have known it. Why do you ask?"

"That, you know, is what we can't just explain yet," answered Janet,
evidently distressed. "Were you very, very fond of her, Cecily?"

"Indeed, yes!" replied the puzzled girl. "How could I help but be? She
was so lovely and sweet and good to me, and seemed to live only for my
comfort and happiness. I never dreamed of such a thing as her not being
my own mother." There were real tears in Cecily's eyes as she made this
declaration. Marcia and Janet experienced as unpleasant a sensation as
if they had been compelled to torture a helpless kitten. And yet the
task must be gone through with and there were further queries to make.

"Do forgive us for all this, Cecily," begged Marcia. "It hurts us
horribly to make you feel badly. We wouldn't do it for the world if
there weren't a good reason. But can you tell us this? Was there
anything your mother ever said or did that would in any way suggest that
she might not be--your own mother? Think hard, Cecily dear."

The girl sat a long while, chin in hand, staring out of the window at
the tightly shuttered expanse of "Benedict's Folly" opposite. No one
spoke, and the others made a vain pretense of working hard at their
embroidery. But the hands of both shook so that the stitches were very,
very crooked indeed. At last Cecily turned to them and spoke in a very
subdued voice:

"These things are making me very unhappy, but I know you only mean them
for my good. My mother did say one or two things that I thought nothing
of at the time, but now, since your questions, seem as if they may have
another meaning. One was this. We were looking in the mirror together
one time, and I said how queer it was that I didn't look a bit like
her. I was so fair and light-haired, and had rosy cheeks, and she was
dark and her eyes were brown and her hair almost black. She smiled and
said:

"'No, it isn't very strange when you think--' and then stopped very
suddenly and flushed quite red. And I asked her what she meant, but she
only replied: 'Oh, nothing, nothing, dear! Children often look very
different from their parents, not at all like them.' And she wouldn't
say any more. I thought it strange for a while, but soon forgot all
about it. I can't imagine now what she meant, unless it was--that. The
only other thing I remember is this. I asked her one time whether, when
I was a tiny little baby, I wore pink or blue bows on my dresses. She
was very busy about something at the time and she just said, sort of
absent-mindedly, 'I don't know I'm sure.' And then she added, in a great
hurry, 'Oh, I don't remember! Pink, I guess.' I thought it strange that
she should forget how she dressed me, for she always had a very good
memory. But I forgot that, too, very soon. That is all."

Marcia and Janet glanced uneasily at each other. The information seemed
to confirm their worst apprehensions. But Janet went on:

"Just one more question, dear, and we'll stop this horrid inquisition.
Can you tell us what was your mother's maiden name, the name of her
people?"

"Yes," said Cecily. "It was Treadwell. But she hadn't any people
left--they were all dead, and she was the last one of her family. But,
oh! can't you tell me, girls, why you have had to ask all these
questions? I have waited so patiently, and I have worried so about it
all. And what you have said to-day has made me feel worse than ever."

"Dear heart, we don't want to tell you quite yet," soothed Marcia. "It
wouldn't do you any good to know about it till we're positive beyond a
doubt. It isn't anything so very terrible, anyhow. Nothing to worry
about at all. But just something we wish might be a little different.
And nothing could possibly make the least difference in the way we care
for you, anyway, so just don't worry another bit. Now I'm going to play
for you." And she drew her violin from its case.

Marcia gave them quite a concert that afternoon, rendering selection
after selection to please them, glad indeed of the diversion and relief
from the unpleasantness of their accomplished task. But she did not play
the "Träumerei," for some reason not very well defined even to herself,
but vaguely connected with recent disclosures. At last Cecily herself
asked for it, and then, of course, Marcia could not refrain from
obliging her. When it was over, Cecily took her departure, and the
girls, left alone, plunged at once into the discussion of the most
recent developments of the mystery.

That evening Captain Brett and the two girls held a council of war.

"There's no denying," he said, "we've discovered the most important
thing yet in learning that name--Treadwell. We've something to work
from now. With that to start from, I can set on foot some inquiries over
in England that may establish her identity. And you must ask Miss
Benedict (though I hate to be constantly troubling her in this way) if
she has any recollection of some one by that name who could possibly
have any claim on her. Do this as soon as possible. We're certain to get
at the root of the matter very soon now."

"Do you think," asked Marcia, "that those remarks of her mother's that
Cecily repeated look as if we were right in believing it to be her
stepmother?"

"It certainly seems so to me," he acknowledged. "Of course, we must
remember this. When you have a suspicion that certain things are so,
every little circumstance and every lightest remark seem to confirm you
in that belief. Often these things have absolutely no bearing on it
whatever, but you _think_ they have, simply because you fear that they
have or want them to have. So we mustn't be misled by chance remarks. I
will admit, however, that these particular ones seem singularly to bear
us out in our conjectures."

"Well, do let's get some of these things settled to-morrow," sighed
Marcia. "I'm losing so much sleep over it that I'm beginning to feel
like an owl. I just worry and worry all night long it seems to me. Let's
ask Miss Benedict about the name of Treadwell when we go there, if we
can possibly manage to see her."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you about that," interrupted the captain. "But
I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to remain at home to-morrow. I'm due
downtown on some errands that will take me to a number of places. And at
the same time, I'm expecting an important business message over the
telephone. I shall have to ask you to be here without fail to take the
message for me. I can't trust Eliza to get it right. So you'll have to
put off your visit for another day. But don't be too much disappointed,
for while I'm away I shall be making inquiries as to how we must go
about tracing the name of Treadwell in England. That will be something
accomplished." And with this consolation the girls had to be content.

"Now," said Janet, next morning, when the captain had gone and they had
resigned themselves to a long day of waiting, "I have a plan to propose.
Let's not talk or even _think_ a thing about all this business to-day.
If we do, we'll only make ourselves more miserable than we are. I found
a perfectly fascinating new book in the library yesterday. Let's sit and
read it, turn about, and see if we can't both finish those centerpieces
we've been working on so long. We'll have to work like everything to do
it. That ought to keep our minds off of our troubles. And we'll
telephone for some French pastry for dessert at luncheon, and some candy
for this afternoon."

The plan seemed to offer pleasant possibilities, and they both settled
themselves comfortably in the cool living-room to pass the morning. The
book was well begun and the embroidery advancing rapidly, when Eliza
came in with a letter just left in the box, and deposited it on the
library table.

"It's for the captain," she announced, as she turned away. Marcia jumped
up and scrutinized the writing.

"Oh, Janet!" she exclaimed at once; "it's from the major!"

"It is?" cried her friend, apprehensively. "Then it's some more horrid
news he's unearthed. I'm certain of it! Not a letter comes from him but
it's something to worry us more. I just hate the sight of them!"

"Yes; and what's more," moaned Marcia, "we can't even know what's in
this one till Father comes home this evening. Why, I feel as if I'd go
crazy, having to wait all that time!"

"Well, you'll have to wait," commented Janet, philosophically, "so you
might as well do it as peacefully as you can. Come, let's go on with our
book."

It was all very well to speak philosophically about the matter, however,
but to _act_ so was a different affair. Try as they might, they could
not, from that moment, concentrate their minds on the pleasant program
they had mapped out for themselves. A dozen times during the morning
Marcia would stop reading and glance speculatively at the unopened
letter. A dozen times Janet left her fancy-work and strolled over to
inspect the superscription anew. The French pastry at luncheon failed to
soothe them, and the candy in the afternoon remained uneaten.

At three o'clock they took to staring out of the window to watch for the
captain's return. And as they watched they detailed to each other the
various things they surmised might be in the major's letter. Marcia
asserted that he had probably discovered the second wife's name to be
Treadwell, thus confirming their worst fears. And Janet declared that he
had no doubt ascertained just why Cecily had been sent to the Benedict
home. Perhaps it was even to prevent her being sent back to China to her
mandarin grandfather. Nothing they could imagine was too dreadful to fit
into the scheme of things. By half past five they were the most
miserable pair of girls in the big city. And at that moment, they heard
the captain's key in the hall door.

"Quick! quick! quick!" they breathlessly panted at him, explaining
nothing, but only waving the major's letter in his face. Asking no
questions, he took it, slit it open, and glanced hurriedly through the
contents. Then he gave a long, low whistle.

"Oh, tell us!" groaned Marcia. "What more that's quite horrible has he
found out?"

For answer the captain sat down and laughed till the tears stood in his
eyes. At last he managed to gasp: "Well, of all the dances I've ever
been led, this is the worst and most foolish! But it's just like the
major. He always was the most impulsive chap. You'll be delighted to
know that he's made one more discovery--and that is that he has been
'barking up the wrong tree,' as they say. Here's what he writes:

      "It occurred to me yesterday, in connection with this affair, to
      look up some of the old diaries I used to keep in the China days.
      They have been stored away in the attic in a chest for years, but
      I got them out and have been running over them, hoping to come
      across an entry that might have some bearing on the matter in
      question. And, quite to my chagrin, I did discover this. I will
      quote it, just as it stands: _Today Carringford was married
      according to native customs. None of us invited._

      "But here's the point of departure, so to speak. This entry was
      made on March 10, 1890, and you see it doesn't agree at all with
      the inscription on your bracelet, which is, I believe, September
      25, 1889. So, of course, the only inference that can be drawn is
      that they were two separate and distinct affairs that have
      absolutely no connection. So sorry! Anything else I can do for
      you, I'll be delighted, etc., etc."

The captain did not finish the remainder of the letter, for the
excellent reason that no one of his audience was paying the least
attention to it.

When he looked up, at this point, Marcia was prone on the couch
alternately sobbing and laughing and sobbing again, and Janet was
staring out of the window, blinking hard to restrain the tears of relief
that would insist on rolling down her cheeks.

And in the midst of this curious state of affairs, who should open the
door and walk in but--Aunt Minerva! Suitcase in hand, she stared at the
three in amazement for a second till, with a glad cry of recognition,
they all rushed upon her and literally snowed her under with embraces.

"I couldn't let you know I was coming, because I didn't know myself till
this morning," she explained. "Drusilla's sister Ellen came in
unexpectedly from the West, and of course that relieved me. I just
packed up in half an hour, and here I am. Whatever is the matter with
you all? When I came in you looked as if you'd just attended the funeral
of your last friend. I hope Eliza hasn't given you all indigestion!"

"We'll tell you after dinner, Minerva," laughed the captain. "It's a
long and complicated tale. My, but we're glad to see you again!"

That evening they made her sit down and listen while they rehearsed the
story. It had to begin with the description of their day on shipboard,
the very day that she had gone away, and ended with the major's final
letter.

She listened to it all very quietly and without any comments whatever,
except for an indignant and scornful sniff once in a while.

"Well," demanded Marcia, when it was over and they were waiting for her
to speak, "what do you think of it?"

"I think," she remarked cryptically, "that you needed Minerva Brett here
to manage this affair for you. _She_ would have given you a little
better advice than to go off on a wild goose chase down to Pennsylvania
on the wrong trail!"

They stared at her in open-mouthed amazement.

"You might explain yourself, Minerva," mildly suggested the captain.

"I _might_, but I'm not going to!" she replied firmly. "At least, not
just at present." And with a tantalizing smile, she sweetly bade them
all good night and departed to her room.

"Janet," said Marcia, that night, as she curled her arms up over her
head on the pillow, "isn't it heavenly to go to sleep with that horrid
weight lifted from your mind? We seem to be just as far as ever from
solving the riddle about Cecily, but at least, the darling isn't the
granddaughter of a mandarin! But, do you know, I can't help but wonder
where that poor little granddaughter is, and what became of her. She
sort of seems like a real person to me now."

"I don't wonder about her, and what's more, I don't care," sighed Janet.
"As long as it wasn't Cecily. What's puzzling me is how your aunt
expects to solve the riddle? What can _she_ know about it?"

"Well, I don't bother about _that_," returned Marcia, "because I'm glad
to let somebody else have a hand in working at it now. I'm content to
leave it to Aunt Minerva!"




CHAPTER XX

AUNT MINERVA TAKES COMMAND


For an entire week thereafter Aunt Minerva went her own mysterious way,
calm and unruffled herself, but keeping the rest of her family on
tenter-hooks of excitement.

She wrote mysterious letters which she would allow no one but herself to
mail, and received mysterious replies, the contents of which she kept a
dark secret. They watched her with the feeling that they were quite
outside the game now, and that she had the keys of the situation
entirely in her own hands. Which was indeed the truth!

At last one day, after receiving a particularly bulky communication, she
deigned to speak.

"Can you carry a message for me to Miss Benedict?" she inquired of
Marcia and Janet.

"Yes!" they replied eagerly, but humbly.

"Ask her if she could possibly grant an interview in her own house to
the four of us here--and one other. It's very important."

"Oh, Aunt Minerva, you _know_ she never receives _any_ strangers in the
house!" expostulated Marcia.

"I know that, of course. And you told me the reason, which I quite
appreciate. But there's bound to come a time, even in her peculiar
experience, when it's expedient to break a rule like that. The time has
come now, and you can tell her that I'm sure she'll be very sorry if she
does not grant this request. The matter intimately concerns her, or I
would not dream of intruding on her."

"Well, you may as well tell _us_ what you've been concocting, Minerva,"
interrupted Captain Brett. "You've kept us in the dark about long
enough, haven't you? And if I'm to go in there with the procession, I'd
like to know a thing or two about where I'm at, instead of sitting
around like a dummy! And who is this 'other one' you allude to, anyway?"

Miss Minerva laughed at his impatience. "You may well ask, Edwin! I
think you must have been about as blind as a bat not to see right along
what struck _me_ the very first minute after you told me what the
jig-saw things on that bracelet meant! As soon as I heard the word
'Amoy' the idea jumped right into my mind. About two months ago I heard
a most wonderful address by a Dr. Atwater, a medical missionary from
China, whose headquarters are at the hospital in _Amoy_. And you can
easily see that I thought of him at once, when--"

"By Jove!" thundered the captain, striking his knee with his fist, "what
a jolly goose I've been not to have thought of the _missions_ there at
once!"

"I should say you were!" commented Miss Minerva, caustically. "You and
the major together!"

"Well, you see I've never come in contact with them much--" began the
captain, apologetically.

"Never mind that now," went on Miss Minerva. "I thought of Dr. Atwater
right away. He's been there many years, and knows something about most
every one in the region, I guess. Anyhow, I decided that I'd get his
address (he's in this country on a year's furlough) and write to him
about this queer case. And I did. And he has answered me--"

"And were you right?" they all interrupted.

"I was _so_ right," she announced triumphantly, "that I've asked him to
come and tell this story (which he has only outlined in his letter) in
full to Miss Benedict. And I want you all to be there to hear it. And
what's more, I'm not going to tell you another word about it till you
hear it from him, so it's no use to tease for hints! Go right in and ask
Miss Benedict when she can arrange for this interview--the sooner, the
better!"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not an easy matter to persuade Miss Benedict to grant Aunt
Minerva's request. She was shy and timid about receiving strangers, and
her affection of the eyes, as well as her curious manner of living, made
it hard for her to do so. She had to acknowledge that it would be even
harder to see them elsewhere. Nor could she believe that the affair
really concerned _her_, except very indirectly--through Cecily, perhaps.
It was for Cecily's sake alone that she at last gave a reluctant
consent, assigning the following Wednesday afternoon as the appointed
time. And the intervening two days was spent by them all in a restless
fever of expectation--all, at least, except Aunt Minerva!

       *       *       *       *       *

On Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Atwater arrived at the apartment and was
taken in charge at once by Miss Minerva, who guarded him like a dragon
lest a hint of the important secret should slip out before the appointed
time. He was a tall, angular man with a gray, Vandyke beard, and his
face was grave in repose. But he talked brightly and interestingly and
had the jolliest laugh in the world. The girls thought him very unlike
their preconceived notions of a missionary. He and the captain
fraternized at once, exchanging tales of the Far East to which Janet
and Marcia listened in absorbed wonder.

But at last Aunt Minerva was ready, and the "procession" (as the captain
insisted on calling it) filed into the street and proceeded to the gate
of "Benedict's Folly." So unusual was the sight of the little crowd
waiting to be admitted, where no admittance had been granted in so many
years, that every passer-by stared at them open-mouthed.

Miss Benedict opened the gate, bonneted and veiled as usual, and Marcia
made the introductions as best she could, to which Miss Benedict's
replies were murmured so low that no one could hear them. Then she led
the way to the house and into the darkened parlor, where they all sat
down, with a sensation of heavy constraint. After that, Cecily came in
and was presented to Dr. Atwater. He started slightly when he saw her,
and looked into her face long and scrutinizingly in the dim light.

When Miss Benedict had removed her bonnet and veil Aunt Minerva broke
the silence:

"Miss Benedict, I have brought Dr. Atwater here because I have
discovered that he has something to tell you--something that will be of
intense interest to you. I know this may seem incredible, but I can only
beg that you will do us the favor to listen."

Miss Benedict inclined her head without speaking, and Aunt Minerva
continued:

"You have heard, I believe, about the curious incident of the bracelets,
but I do not know whether you have heard about the translation of the
strange characters on them."

Miss Benedict murmured that she had not, and Miss Minerva explained it
as briefly as she could. Then she went on:

"Dr. Atwater, here, is a medical missionary from Amoy, and I have found
that he not only knew the owner of the bracelets, but has some personal
recollections about them that we think will concern you. Will you listen
to Dr. Atwater, if you please?"

Miss Benedict again bowed in assent, and Dr. Atwater began in an easy,
conversational tone:

"Miss Brett has remarked correctly that I knew the owner of the
bracelets, and all about the characters on them, and a good deal of the
story connected with them. By sheer chance, or rather, perhaps, I ought
to say by very good reasoning, she has hit on about the only person
living now who does know anything about them! Here's the story:

"A good many years ago in Amoy--I was quite a _young_ doctor then--I was
thrown in with a clever young fellow who had recently landed there,
having come on a sailing-ship from America. He seemed rather at loose
ends, so to speak,--didn't know the language, didn't have any money,
didn't know what to do with himself, didn't have any occupation, and
spent most of his time wandering aimlessly about the town.

"He was a fine, upstanding, straightforward chap (he said his name was
Archibald Ferris), but he evidently had something on his mind, for he
was gloomy and depressed. It began to worry me for fear he'd drift into
trouble if he kept on that way. So I tried to get him interested in my
own work, and invited him to go around with me on some of my long tours.
We didn't have any hospital then, and I had to go about from town to
town doing my medical work as I went. He came with me very gladly, and
was of a good deal of assistance, and we grew to be firm friends. But I
realized there was something he was pining for, and after a long while
he confessed to me what it was.

"He wanted a _violin_! He adored music, played well, but had lost or
parted from his instrument in some way. (He didn't explain that, just
then.) Well, a missionary's salary isn't munificent, so I couldn't very
well grant his wish out of my own pocket, much as I wanted to. The best
I could do was to get him a position in a Chinese tea-exporting house in
Amoy, where he could earn the money himself. It was better for him to be
regularly occupied, anyway.

"After a few months he had saved a sufficient sum, and sent off to
Shanghai for his coveted treasure--he couldn't wait to get it over from
America! After it came he was actually happy--for a while. He _was_ a
marvelous musician for his age, I'll admit, and he could hold us
spellbound an entire evening at a time with his bow. The natives adored
him, and gave him the name 'Chok-gàk ê lâng' or 'maker of melodies.'

"Well, he had the musical temperament, and after his violin came he
couldn't stay long in the tea-house, but got to going about with me
again on my tours--always with his precious violin. He was really of the
greatest assistance, because his music was almost as good as an
anæsthetic in many instances--could calm the most excitable fever-case I
ever came across.

"It was on one of these tours that he met young Miss Cecily Marlowe at
the English mission in Sio-khé--"

At this point every one gave a little start of surprise and looked
toward Cecily, who alone sat gazing, wide-eyed and absorbed, at Dr.
Atwater.

"She was a wonderfully beautiful girl," he continued, "with a color
like English roses in her cheeks. The Chinese called her
'Flower-maiden,' or 'Hor-lú.' She had but recently come to the mission
from her home in England. Well, it was a case of love at first sight on
both sides! And before many more months Ferris announced to me that he
was going back into the position at the tea-house and there earn enough
money to be able to marry her. But he also told me that Miss Marlowe,
while very much in love with him, was still very devoted to her work
there and very earnest about the cause for which she had left her home
and come so far to serve. She insisted that, if they married, she must
still be allowed to continue in the missionary work. To this he was
perfectly willing to assent.

"So they were married in the English mission at Amoy, and on the
wedding-day he gave her this pair of bracelets which he had had made
after his own design. They were not an expensive gift, but he was poor,
in worldly goods, and it was the best he could afford. After the
honeymoon they built a little home on the island of Ko-longsu, right
near the city of Amoy. He went on with his work in the tea-house, and
she with her teaching in the mission-school on the island.

"It seemed an ideal arrangement, and they were ideally happy for a
number of years. He never advanced very far in the tea-house, for he
loved his music too well and he had no head for business. But he made
enough to keep them comfortably, and more they did not want.

"Then about 1898, I think, came a change. To their great joy a little
daughter was born to them. She was a beautiful baby, and for over a year
there was no happier home in all China. But one day, when the baby was
about a year and a half old, Ferris came to me and told me he was in
trouble and wanted my advice.

"He began by telling me that the baby seemed to be drooping and that he
himself was not feeling quite up to the mark. I looked them both over
and found he was right. The climate was too much for them. It is for
many foreigners sooner or later. I told him they ought to go home for a
year or so and recuperate. He said he couldn't--didn't have any home to
go to, in fact. Had long ago quarreled violently with his people, and
would never go back to them. Moreover, he had his wife and baby to
consider. He couldn't afford to give up and lose his position. If he
did, what were they to do?

"I suggested that they go to his wife's people in England. He said there
was difficulty in that direction, too. She had only a married brother
and his wife, and they had not approved of her giving up all her
prospects to come to China as a missionary. They heard from them only at
long intervals, though recently, to be sure, they had offered to take
care of the little girl if the time came that she needed change of air.

"Ferris told me that he and his wife naturally could not bear to
consider such a thing, but on the other hand, the baby's welfare must be
their first consideration. What should I advise them to do?

"I considered the matter carefully, and at last told him he'd better
accept the offer to care for the baby for a year or so. She, at least,
would be provided for, and he and his wife could then take their chances
without imperiling her future. To follow this advice nearly broke their
hearts, but the next missionaries who went back to England on furlough
took the baby with them, and gave her into the care of the brother and
his wife. It is needless to say that Cecily Ferris is the same whom we
know as Cecily Marlowe. I would recognize her anywhere, for she is the
image of her mother." And he looked toward the girl sitting in the dim
light, held by the wonder of his story. The silence that ensued was
broken first by her.

"Tell me, if you please," she half whispered, "did my father ever--ever
play to me on his violin? Do you know what he played?"

"Why, I'm sure he did," smiled Dr. Atwater. "I used to stop at his house
early in the evening sometimes, and I generally found him fiddling away
by the side of your cradle. Mostly it was an air he called 'Träumerei,'
or something like that. I'm not very good at remembering musical
names."

"I knew it!--I _knew_ I'd heard it somewhere, over and over again, when
I was little!" she cried. "And yet I never could remember anything else
about it!"

"He used to say it was his favorite," remarked Dr. Atwater.

Suddenly Miss Benedict spoke, for the first time during the recital.
There was a tremble of suppressed excitement in her voice.

"Is that all the story?"

"Oh, no!" resumed Dr. Atwater. "There's not much more to tell, but I'm
sorry to say, the rest is not very cheerful. After the baby's departure
Ferris's health failed perceptibly. He finally gave up his position, but
Mrs. Ferris kept on with her work and nursed him as well. But the strain
of all this began to tell on her, and at last, in 1900, I advised her to
take a holiday, and go north to Tientsin with her husband to recuperate.
We missionaries raised enough among ourselves to finance this little
vacation for them. Before he went, however, Ferris had a long talk with
me one day, and confided to me a few things about himself and his past.
To begin with, he said that Archibald Ferris was not his right name. He
had assumed it at a certain period of his life because he had broken
away from his family, and did not deem it best that what remained of
that family should ever know he existed. They probably thought him
dead--in fact he was sure that they did. And his return to existence, so
far as they were concerned, would simply complicate family affairs. Only
his wife knew who these relatives were. He had recently, however, sent
word to his wife's brother that should anything ever happen by which
Cecily would be left alone, she should be sent to America and placed in
the care of this family, whose name he had given them under the seal of
secrecy, if the brother and his wife were unable or unwilling to provide
for her. He also sent one of the bracelets to England to be given to his
little daughter, requesting that she be always allowed to keep it. The
mother always wore the other one.

"He was very much depressed that day, and told me, besides, that his
career had been wrecked in the beginning--that he had dreamed of being a
great violinist, but had been thwarted in strange ways. However, he
declared that his life in China had been happy beyond words, except for
the unhappy present. Then he bade me good-by, as he was starting for
Tientsin the next day."

Dr. Atwater stopped abruptly and swallowed hard, as if what he had to
tell next came with an effort. He went on presently. "It was at the time
of the Boxer uprising. Ferris and his wife had almost reached Tientsin
when the trouble broke out there, and--they were never seen alive
again!" He stopped, and there was a tense silence in the room.

At last he continued: "I have always blamed myself for having been the
unwitting cause of their death. I had advised them to go to Tientsin,
though of course I could not foresee the dark days that were about to
come. I wish with all my soul that I had not done so, that I had,
perhaps, sent them somewhere else, but it is irrevocable now. There is
no use dwelling on the past.

"Doubtless that is how the other bracelet came to be cast loose on the
Oriental world. Probably it was stolen at the time, and passed from hand
to hand till it came into the possession of Captain Brett. It is a
strange coincidence that brought it back at last to its mate!

"It became my sad duty to notify Mr. Marlowe of the tragedy. In his
reply--a frank, manly letter--he expressed his regret that a difference
of opinion had ever interrupted the cordiality of his relations with his
sister and her husband, and said that, as he and his wife already loved
little Cecily devotedly, they would adopt her as their own. They were
reluctant to have her childhood shadowed by her parents' sorrowful
story, and so believed it best that she should never know that she was
not indeed their daughter, Cecily Marlowe.

"Well, that is the story of the man who called himself Archibald
Ferris," said Dr. Atwater. He looked about him inquiringly and added: "I
hope that my telling it has given all the enlightenment that was
expected?"

During his long recital every one had sat with eyes fastened upon him,
and no one of his audience had a thought for the other. Now that it was
over they each drew a long breath and settled back in their chairs. And
then, for the first time, they noticed the curious conduct of Miss
Benedict.

She was sitting far forward in her chair, her big gray eyes almost
starting from her head, her hands clutching the arms of the chair till
the blue veins stood out. On her forehead were great beads of
perspiration, and she drew her breath in little gasps. Quite unconscious
of their united gaze, she leaned forward and touched Dr. Atwater's arm
with an imploring hand.

"Was there--was there no way of--of ascertaining his _real_ name?" she
stammered.

Dr. Atwater looked at her with compassion in his kindly eyes. "I know of
but one thing that might have served as an identification," he conceded.
"When I was giving him the medical examination, I noticed on his left
upper arm two small initials surrounded by a tiny row of dots. They
were just such a mark as small boys often tattoo themselves with in
indelible ink, and of course, they are there for life. Doubtless he had
so decorated himself with his initials in his boyhood days--"

"Oh, what _were_ the initials?" interrupted Miss Benedict in a stifled
voice.

"They were 'S. B.,'" replied Dr. Atwater.

With a little choking cry, Miss Benedict buried her face in her hands.

"Oh, it can't--it _can't_ be _possible_!" they heard her murmur. Then in
an instant she had collected herself and gazed about at them all,
amazement and incredulity in her lovely eyes.

"My friends," she spoke very quietly, "I cannot understand what this
means. My brother's name was Sydney Benedict, and I remember when, as a
boy, he had tattooed those initials on his left arm, as Dr. Atwater has
described them. And he performed wonderfully on the violin, and dreamed
only of being a great artist some day. He longed to go abroad and
study, but my father would not hear of it. He wished his only son to
enter his business and continue it after him. They were both
high-tempered and had many terrible quarrels about it. I--my sister and
I--sided with my father. At last my father threatened to disinherit
Sydney if he did not accede to his wishes. And on the following
morning--it was his twenty-first birthday--we found only a note pinned
to his pillow, saying he had gone away forever. He had taken with him
only his violin.

"But," and here she hesitated, gazing around inquiringly on the company,
"I cannot understand what follows. Two weeks later we received word from
a steamer that had just arrived in Europe from New York, that a young
man named Sydney Benedict had fallen or jumped overboard one night when
they were two days out, and his loss was not discovered till next day.
Only his violin remained in the cabin. He was certainly lost at sea. I
cannot understand--" She suddenly pressed both hands to her head as if
it pained her.

"Wait a moment!" cried Dr. Atwater. "I believe I can explain that. I
should have told it before, but I quite forgot; there was so much to
tell. He did once confide to me (apropos of some little adventure we had
had together on one of my trips, when I almost lost my life) that he too
had once had the narrowest kind of escape from death. He said that on
leaving America he had taken a steamer for Europe, hoping to find the
means to study there. They hadn't passed Sandy Hook, however, before he
became violently seasick, and lay in his berth like a log for
twenty-four hours. On the second night it became so stiflingly hot in
his cabin that he felt he must get to the deck for air or die.

"So he struggled out and up the companionway, somehow, meeting no one,
for it was very late. On the deck he crawled in behind a life-boat, and
lay in a rather unprotected outer portion of the deck, so sick that he
scarcely knew where he was or how dangerous was the spot he had chosen.
All of a sudden the vessel gave an unusually heavy lurch, and before he
could clutch for any hold he was catapulted into the sea.

"Curiously enough, the sudden ducking dispelled his horrible sickness,
and when he came to the surface he found himself striking out to swim.
Useless to shout for help from the great steamer, which had already
passed a boat's length beyond him. But he was a strong swimmer, the
night was warm, and he resolved not to give up till he _had_ to.

"All night, till dawn, he managed to keep on the surface, swimming and
floating. And at daylight a sailing-vessel picked him up, numb and
weary, and ready to go to the bottom at the next stroke. The ship on
which he found himself was bound for China, and of course he had to 'tag
along,' working his passage as a common sailor in return for his keep.
It was then, I suspect, that he made up his mind to change his name. I
think, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Archibald Ferris and Sydney
Benedict are one and the same person!"

At this Aunt Minerva, who hadn't spoken a word since her speech of
introduction, put on her glasses and swept the assembly with a
triumphant gaze. The girls and Captain Brett were so absorbed that they
could not utter a syllable, and Miss Benedict sat back in her chair in a
stunned silence.

Only Cecily seemed unconscious enough of the strain to do the natural
thing. She rose from her chair and went over to Miss Benedict, dropping
down on her knees beside her, and snuggling her head on the older
woman's shoulder with a confiding movement.

"I'm Cecily _Benedict_ now," she said simply, "and I--I love you--Aunt
Alixe! I'm glad there _was_ a good reason why I was sent over here to
you!"

Miss Benedict looked down at the golden head, and the terrible tension
in her face relaxed.

"Sydney's child!--my little Cecily!" they heard her murmur.

But they heard no more, for at this point, Aunt Minerva arose and
majestically motioned the entire company out of the room!




CHAPTER XXI

SIX MONTHS LATER


      JANET DEAR:

      I know you think I'm a wretch not to have written in so long! but
      honestly, things have been happening so fast that I don't have
      time to sit down and write you about one event before a brand-new
      one has taken place.

      I've missed you horribly ever since you went back to Northam. It
      was a shame that you had to leave just after the grand clear-up of
      our mystery, for you've been missing some of the most wonderful
      parts--all the lovely things that have happened since.

      I think I've already written you about some of the changes that
      have taken place in "Benedict's Folly." It's the most remarkable
      thing--the way Aunt Minerva has taken that place--Miss Benedict
      and all--completely under her wing! Miss Benedict (who, by the
      way, wants us both to call her Miss Alixe) seemed completely
      helpless for a while after the "great day," and turned to Aunt
      Minerva for pretty nearly everything,--principally advice! You can
      imagine how Aunt Minerva is enjoying herself! She just loves
      nothing better than managing people's affairs for them--if they
      want her to!

      In the first place, Aunt Minerva advised her to get the house into
      livable condition, and find suitable servants, and get some modern
      clothes. And as poor Miss Alixe acted like a lost kitten in going
      about it, Aunt Minerva just took hold and managed the whole thing.
      And you'd never recognize our dilapidated old house of mystery
      now, it's so changed and so lovely. Miss Alixe has decided that
      now there is no further reason for her not using their large
      fortune, and everything must be the nicest possible--for Cecily's
      sake.

      And Cecily!--what a darling she is! Of course we are simply
      inseparable. She has even begun to go to the high school with me,
      because Miss Alixe _and_ Aunt Minerva have decided that it will be
      better for her than studying with a private tutor. She is the
      happiest thing I ever saw, and says she feels as if she were
      living in a fairy-story all the time! We are just longing for the
      Easter vacation to come, and your visit. Then we three can be
      together again in the good old way. Won't it be glorious?

      But this is all aside from the other two big pieces of news I
      wanted to tell you. Almost from the beginning Aunt Minerva has
      been urging Miss Alixe to go to a first-class oculist and have her
      eyes examined. And at last, a few weeks ago, they went together,
      and what do you suppose is the result? He said that almost without
      a doubt her sight can be restored, with proper treatment and
      possibly a slight operation later. She began the treatment at
      once, and already her sight is much improved. She can stand a
      stronger light, and has those awful headaches less frequently. You
      see, it was years since she had had any advice about them, and
      they've made great strides in treatment of the eyes since then.
      They can almost do the impossible. We are all so happy about it!

      And now for the last and biggest piece of news! Perhaps you are
      wondering what has become of Miss Alixe's mysterious and invisible
      older sister, and it is about her that I'm going to tell you. You
      will never in the world be able to guess what has happened.

      Aunt Minerva insisted (again Aunt Minerva) that Miss Alixe must
      have one of the big alienists (that's what they call specialists
      in mental diseases, I've learned) see Miss Cornelia, the sister,
      and perhaps he could tell whether anything could be done for
      _her_. It took a long time to persuade Miss Alixe that there was
      any use in doing this, but at last she consented. I think she has
      always been very sensitive about that poor sister's losing her
      mind, and she never wanted any one to see her. Even after she had
      a number of servants in the house, she wouldn't let any one wait
      on Miss Cornelia but herself.

      Well, the great doctor came and was there for hours and asked a
      terrific lot of questions--all about everything that had happened
      for years and years. He learned one thing that interested him
      more than anything else, he said. Do you remember the day last
      summer when we were there, sitting in the garden, and I played on
      my violin--how Miss Alixe came down in a great hurry and asked me
      to stop because it disturbed her sister? You may remember, too,
      that I was playing "Träumerei"--had played it twice? Well, she
      told the doctor that when Miss Cornelia heard that, she acted very
      much excited, cried, and twisted her hands and tried to speak.
      (She hasn't spoken an intelligible word since she had the
      "stroke.") Miss Alixe also told him how their favorite brother had
      played so much on the violin, particularly that same air.

      He said this was a most hopeful sign--it indicated that conditions
      were now such that there was a possibility of her reason and
      memory and even speech being restored, provided they could touch
      just the right note of association.

      After he had thought the matter over a long time he decided to try
      an experiment. And he selected me--little, insignificant _me_--to
      help! He had me come in and bring my violin and sit in the room
      with Miss Cornelia, a little behind her, so she would not notice
      me particularly. Then he had Miss Alixe and Cecily also sitting
      there in plain sight of her, just quietly sewing or reading and
      not paying any particular attention to any one. He and Aunt
      Minerva stayed outside, watching through the partly opened door.

      It was the first time I had ever seen Miss Cornelia (except that
      time when the shutter blew open), and, Janet, she is _magnificent_
      looking--entirely different from what I had imagined! She is large
      and stately and imposing, with white hair like Miss Alixe's, piled
      under a lace cap, and great black eyes. She just sat there quietly
      knitting, and took no notice of any one. You would not have known
      that there was anything the matter with her, except that her face
      was almost expressionless--as if she wasn't thinking of anything
      at all. I can't describe it any other way.

      Well, there we sat, and at a given signal from the doctor outside
      the door I was to begin--very, very quietly and softly--to play
      the "Träumerei." You can just imagine how nervous I was--so much
      depended on my doing just the right thing! My hands shook, and my
      knees shook, and my heart thumped, and I thought I should never be
      able even to hold the bow. It seemed an age before the doctor
      raised his hand as a signal, but when he did I tucked the violin
      under my chin and fairly prayed that I shouldn't make a failure of
      my part, anyway!

      And I played the "Träumerei" through, the very best I could--and
      nothing happened. Miss Cornelia went right on knitting and never
      noticed it at all. Then the doctor made another signal, and I
      began it again. This time she laid down her knitting, closed her
      eyes, and leaned her head against the back of the chair. And when
      I'd finished for the second time, what _do_ you suppose happened?

      She opened her eyes, looked over at Miss Alixe, and _spoke_, for
      the first time in nearly thirty years! And this is what she said,
      as simply and quietly as though all those thirty years had never
      elapsed:

      [Illustration: "Sydney must have come in again; I hear him
      practising!"]

      "Sydney must have come in again; I hear him practising!"

      Miss Alixe was so startled she looked ready to faint away. But she
      managed to say, "No, Cornelia, but I'll tell you all about it."
      Then the doctor in great excitement beckoned us all to come out of
      the room quickly and leave her alone with Miss Alixe. So we
      vanished, and the two were there together a long, long time. At
      last Miss Alixe sent for Cecily, and she was gone a long time,
      too.

      When it was all over, the doctor said it was the most successful
      thing that had ever happened in all his experience. Miss Cornelia
      is completely restored to memory and speech. And after the first
      shock of learning all that had been blank to her for these past
      years, she rallied well, and is now resting and recuperating under
      the care of Miss Alixe and a trained nurse. She still finds it
      very hard to realize all the changes that have happened in those
      thirty years, and she grieves a great deal over the death of her
      brother, which seems very recent and terrible to her. But she is
      simply devoted to Cecily, and Cecily is growing almost as fond of
      _her_ as she is of Miss Alixe. Next summer the whole family is
      going with us to spend two months in Northam (Aunt Minerva's
      doings again!) because it is so lovely and restful there. And
      won't we have a wonderful summer together, Janet dear? I can
      hardly wait for the time to come!

      Well, that is all the news I have to tell, and I guess you'll
      agree with me that it certainly is enough--and very satisfying!

      One thing amuses me to pieces, Janet, every time I think of it. Do
      you remember how, when you first came to visit us last summer, I
      was explaining to you all I'd discovered about "Benedict's Folly"
      and flattering myself with the idea that I, or, rather, you and I,
      would work out the puzzle and solve the mystery--all by ourselves?

      What little geese we were! A lot we _did_ toward unraveling any of
      that tangle! Even father and Major Goodrich were way off the
      track. It took Aunt Minerva (the darling!) to walk right in and
      clear the whole thing up! Here's "Hurrah!" then, for Aunt Minerva!
      She certainly had the laugh on _us_!

      However, I sometimes console myself with the thought that it was
      we (you and I) who first took an interest in that shuttered old
      house in the garden. If we hadn't--who knows?--we would probably
      never have met Cecily, and things would be just the same as ever
      there, and Miss Alixe wouldn't have--

      But what's the use of going into all that! The "girl next door" is
      our own dearest friend now, and everything is all right.

      I just looked out of the window and saw a light in Cecily's room.
      She's also writing to you to-night. We promised each other we both
      would. I'm growing sleepy now, so good-night and heaps of love.

  MARCIA.
  February 28, 1913.

      P. S. Did I tell you this before, I wonder? Cecily has both the
      bracelets now. Aunt Minerva, of course insisted that she should.
      She has put them safely away and will never part with them again.
      But we take them out and look at them sometimes and think of all
      the strange and awful adventures they've been through and the
      curious chance that brought them together again.

      Always, after we've looked at them, Cecily asks me to play the
      "Träumerei." And while I play, she sits very quietly and says
      nothing, and her eyes have a far-away look. But I know what she is
      thinking about!

  M.

THE END





End of Project Gutenberg's The Girl Next Door, by Augusta Huiell Seaman