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.