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."