"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.