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.