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."

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"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.

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!