It was a week after the events of the last chapter. The girls had gone regularly every day to visit Cecily. It was Marcia who had finally mustered up courage to ask Miss Benedict if Cecily could not go into the garden and enjoy there some outdoor air and sunshine. Miss Benedict had hesitated at first, but at last she conceded that Cecily and the girls might sit in the garden if they would go out of the house by a small side door and remain on that side of the house.

They found that this door was on the opposite side of the house from Cecily's room: consequently, they had never seen it. And they soon discovered one reason, at least, why Miss Benedict wished them to remain exclusively on that side. It was screened both back and front by thick bushes and trees. And at the side, above the garden wall, rose the high blank side of a building, unrelieved by a single window. Here they were as absolutely screened from public view as if they were within the house. Here also was an old rustic bench and table, and they spent several happy mornings in the secluded spot, sewing, reading, and chatting.

Cecily seemed fairly to open out before their eyes, like a flower-bud expanding in warm, sunny atmosphere. Only at times now did she show any trace of the frightened repression of their earlier acquaintance. They seldom talked abut the mystery surrounding her, because they had discovered that any allusion to it only made her uneasy, unhappy, and rather silent. Moreover, further discussion of it was rather useless, as they seemed to have reached a point in its solution beyond which progress was hopeless.

So they talked gaily about themselves and their own affairs, sometimes of their former home in Northam, the pleasant New England village. Occasionally Cecily would reciprocate by allowing them glimpses of her life in the obscure little English town from which she had come. Only rarely did she allude to the circumstances of her present home, and though the girls secretly ached to know more about it, they were too tactful to ask any questions.

One query, whose answer they could not guess was this: who was the other mysterious old lady, kept so closely a prisoner in her room by Miss Benedict? And why was she so kept? Marcia and Janet were never tired of discussing this question between themselves. That it was a relative, they could not doubt. And they recalled one or two remarks Miss Benedict had dropped, particularly when she had said: "We—that is—I have some means."

The "we" must certainly have referred to herself and the other one. But could that "other one" be mother, sister, aunt, or cousin? And why was there so much secrecy about her? Cecily had only said that Miss Benedict referred to her as "the lady in there who is not very well." But why conceal so carefully just an ordinary invalid?

"You never can tell, though," remarked Janet, decisively, one night when they had been discussing the matter with Aunt Minerva. "Were you ever more stunned, Marcia, than at the reason she gave for having all the shutters closed? I think it was the most pitiful thing I ever heard, I could just have sat and cried about it. And it was so different from all the awful things we'd imagined. Perhaps there is just as good a reason for this other mystery."

"But what puzzles me," broke in Aunt Minerva, impatiently, "is why that woman, if she's so wealthy, doesn't go to a good oculist and have some treatment for her eyes. They can do such wonders nowadays. Why on earth does she endure it? I never heard of anything so silly!"

"I suppose it's for the same reason that she wouldn't have a doctor when she hurt her ankle," said Marcia. "She evidently doesn't want a stranger in the house, even for such important things as those."

One day Cecily asked Marcia why she never brought in her violin since the occasion of the first visit, and requested that she bring it with her next day and give them a concert.

So on the following day Marcia came armed with her violin case and also an interesting new book from the library that she thought Cecily would enjoy.

"Let's read the book first," Cecily elected. So, sitting in the secluded corner of the garden, the three spent a happy morning, reading aloud, turn about, while the others worked at their embroidery. At last, when all were tired, Cecily begged Marcia to play, and she laid her book aside and took up the violin.

"What shall I play?" she asked. "Something lively?"

"No," said Cecily. "Play something soft and sweet and dreamy. I feel just in that mood to-day. It's too hot for lively things."

Marcia played the Liszt "Liebestraum," and a lovely setting of the old Scotch song "Loch Lomond," and after that the "Melody in F." And then, at Cecily's entreating glance, she drifted, as usual, into the "TrÄumerei."

"Do you know," said Cecily, when she had ended, "I believe I must have heard that thing when I was a baby. It's the only reason I can think of that it seems so—so familiar. And yet—unless I'd heard it a great, great many times then, I don't think it would have made such an impression on me. And where could I have heard it? Play it again, Marcia, please."

Marcia obligingly began, but she had gone no farther than the first few measures when the door opened and Miss Benedict appeared. She seemed very much agitated, and her bonnet and veil, donned in an evident hurry, were slightly awry.

"I beg you," she began, turning to Marcia, "not to play any more. I—er—it is—is not because it is not beautiful, but it is—is slightly disturbing to—some one inside."

"Why, of course I won't, Miss Benedict," said Marcia, dropping her bow. "I wouldn't have done such a thing if I'd dreamed it would disturb any one."

"It isn't—it isn't that I don't love it," stammered Miss Benedict, "for I do. But it seems to be very upsetting to—" She hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, and then seemed to take a sudden resolution.

"—to my sister!" she ended flutteringly, as though the simple admission carried something damaging with it. It required strong self-control for the three girls not to exchange glances.

"Oh, I hope I haven't done her any harm!" cried Marcia, contritely.

"No—she—it has just made her a little nervous. She will be all right soon, I trust. But I noticed that it had the same effect—before," went on Miss Benedict. "I fear I shall have to ask you not—not to play again in her hearing. And I am very sorry, both for Cecily—and myself." And she retreated into the house again, closing the door softly.

On the way back to luncheon that noon the girls excitedly discussed the newest turn of affairs and the newest revelation made by their strange neighbor. And so absorbed were they in this fresh interest and so anxious to impart it to Aunt Minerva that they scarcely noticed she was laboring under a suppressed excitement quite as great as their own. Indeed, she paid but scant attention to their recital; and when they had finished, her only comment was:

"Very odd—very odd indeed. But you never can guess about the news I have!"

"No, no! Of course I can't guess. Tell us—quick!" cried Marcia, impatiently. "It's something wonderful, I know!"

Miss Minerva made no reply, but suddenly laid a wireless telegram before them. Marcia snatched it up and read aloud:

"Change of sailing-plans. Will be home in two days.

"Edwin Brett."

"Hurrah! hurrah!" she cried. "Father's coming! A whole two months before we expected him! Now we'll hear something about the bracelet—and who knows what will happen after that!"