For an entire week thereafter Aunt Minerva went her own mysterious way, calm and unruffled herself, but keeping the rest of her family on tenter-hooks of excitement.

She wrote mysterious letters which she would allow no one but herself to mail, and received mysterious replies, the contents of which she kept a dark secret. They watched her with the feeling that they were quite outside the game now, and that she had the keys of the situation entirely in her own hands. Which was indeed the truth!

At last one day, after receiving a particularly bulky communication, she deigned to speak.

"Can you carry a message for me to Miss Benedict?" she inquired of Marcia and Janet.

"Yes!" they replied eagerly, but humbly.

"Ask her if she could possibly grant an interview in her own house to the four of us here—and one other. It's very important."

"Oh, Aunt Minerva, you know she never receives any strangers in the house!" expostulated Marcia.

"I know that, of course. And you told me the reason, which I quite appreciate. But there's bound to come a time, even in her peculiar experience, when it's expedient to break a rule like that. The time has come now, and you can tell her that I'm sure she'll be very sorry if she does not grant this request. The matter intimately concerns her, or I would not dream of intruding on her."

"Well, you may as well tell us what you've been concocting, Minerva," interrupted Captain Brett. "You've kept us in the dark about long enough, haven't you? And if I'm to go in there with the procession, I'd like to know a thing or two about where I'm at, instead of sitting around like a dummy! And who is this 'other one' you allude to, anyway?"

Miss Minerva laughed at his impatience. "You may well ask, Edwin! I think you must have been about as blind as a bat not to see right along what struck me the very first minute after you told me what the jig-saw things on that bracelet meant! As soon as I heard the word 'Amoy' the idea jumped right into my mind. About two months ago I heard a most wonderful address by a Dr. Atwater, a medical missionary from China, whose headquarters are at the hospital in Amoy. And you can easily see that I thought of him at once, when—"

"By Jove!" thundered the captain, striking his knee with his fist, "what a jolly goose I've been not to have thought of the missions there at once!"

"I should say you were!" commented Miss Minerva, caustically. "You and the major together!"

"Well, you see I've never come in contact with them much—" began the captain, apologetically.

"Never mind that now," went on Miss Minerva. "I thought of Dr. Atwater right away. He's been there many years, and knows something about most every one in the region, I guess. Anyhow, I decided that I'd get his address (he's in this country on a year's furlough) and write to him about this queer case. And I did. And he has answered me—"

"And were you right?" they all interrupted.

"I was so right," she announced triumphantly, "that I've asked him to come and tell this story (which he has only outlined in his letter) in full to Miss Benedict. And I want you all to be there to hear it. And what's more, I'm not going to tell you another word about it till you hear it from him, so it's no use to tease for hints! Go right in and ask Miss Benedict when she can arrange for this interview—the sooner, the better!"

It was not an easy matter to persuade Miss Benedict to grant Aunt Minerva's request. She was shy and timid about receiving strangers, and her affection of the eyes, as well as her curious manner of living, made it hard for her to do so. She had to acknowledge that it would be even harder to see them elsewhere. Nor could she believe that the affair really concerned her, except very indirectly—through Cecily, perhaps. It was for Cecily's sake alone that she at last gave a reluctant consent, assigning the following Wednesday afternoon as the appointed time. And the intervening two days was spent by them all in a restless fever of expectation—all, at least, except Aunt Minerva!

On Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Atwater arrived at the apartment and was taken in charge at once by Miss Minerva, who guarded him like a dragon lest a hint of the important secret should slip out before the appointed time. He was a tall, angular man with a gray, Vandyke beard, and his face was grave in repose. But he talked brightly and interestingly and had the jolliest laugh in the world. The girls thought him very unlike their preconceived notions of a missionary. He and the captain fraternized at once, exchanging tales of the Far East to which Janet and Marcia listened in absorbed wonder.

But at last Aunt Minerva was ready, and the "procession" (as the captain insisted on calling it) filed into the street and proceeded to the gate of "Benedict's Folly." So unusual was the sight of the little crowd waiting to be admitted, where no admittance had been granted in so many years, that every passer-by stared at them open-mouthed.

Miss Benedict opened the gate, bonneted and veiled as usual, and Marcia made the introductions as best she could, to which Miss Benedict's replies were murmured so low that no one could hear them. Then she led the way to the house and into the darkened parlor, where they all sat down, with a sensation of heavy constraint. After that, Cecily came in and was presented to Dr. Atwater. He started slightly when he saw her, and looked into her face long and scrutinizingly in the dim light.

When Miss Benedict had removed her bonnet and veil Aunt Minerva broke the silence:

"Miss Benedict, I have brought Dr. Atwater here because I have discovered that he has something to tell you—something that will be of intense interest to you. I know this may seem incredible, but I can only beg that you will do us the favor to listen."

Miss Benedict inclined her head without speaking, and Aunt Minerva continued:

"You have heard, I believe, about the curious incident of the bracelets, but I do not know whether you have heard about the translation of the strange characters on them."

Miss Benedict murmured that she had not, and Miss Minerva explained it as briefly as she could. Then she went on:

"Dr. Atwater, here, is a medical missionary from Amoy, and I have found that he not only knew the owner of the bracelets, but has some personal recollections about them that we think will concern you. Will you listen to Dr. Atwater, if you please?"

Miss Benedict again bowed in assent, and Dr. Atwater began in an easy, conversational tone:

"Miss Brett has remarked correctly that I knew the owner of the bracelets, and all about the characters on them, and a good deal of the story connected with them. By sheer chance, or rather, perhaps, I ought to say by very good reasoning, she has hit on about the only person living now who does know anything about them! Here's the story:

"A good many years ago in Amoy—I was quite a young doctor then—I was thrown in with a clever young fellow who had recently landed there, having come on a sailing-ship from America. He seemed rather at loose ends, so to speak,—didn't know the language, didn't have any money, didn't know what to do with himself, didn't have any occupation, and spent most of his time wandering aimlessly about the town.

"He was a fine, upstanding, straightforward chap (he said his name was Archibald Ferris), but he evidently had something on his mind, for he was gloomy and depressed. It began to worry me for fear he'd drift into trouble if he kept on that way. So I tried to get him interested in my own work, and invited him to go around with me on some of my long tours. We didn't have any hospital then, and I had to go about from town to town doing my medical work as I went. He came with me very gladly, and was of a good deal of assistance, and we grew to be firm friends. But I realized there was something he was pining for, and after a long while he confessed to me what it was.

"He wanted a violin! He adored music, played well, but had lost or parted from his instrument in some way. (He didn't explain that, just then.) Well, a missionary's salary isn't munificent, so I couldn't very well grant his wish out of my own pocket, much as I wanted to. The best I could do was to get him a position in a Chinese tea-exporting house in Amoy, where he could earn the money himself. It was better for him to be regularly occupied, anyway.

"After a few months he had saved a sufficient sum, and sent off to Shanghai for his coveted treasure—he couldn't wait to get it over from America! After it came he was actually happy—for a while. He was a marvelous musician for his age, I'll admit, and he could hold us spellbound an entire evening at a time with his bow. The natives adored him, and gave him the name 'Chok-gÀk Ê lÂng' or 'maker of melodies.'

"Well, he had the musical temperament, and after his violin came he couldn't stay long in the tea-house, but got to going about with me again on my tours—always with his precious violin. He was really of the greatest assistance, because his music was almost as good as an anÆsthetic in many instances—could calm the most excitable fever-case I ever came across.

"It was on one of these tours that he met young Miss Cecily Marlowe at the English mission in Sio-khÉ—"

At this point every one gave a little start of surprise and looked toward Cecily, who alone sat gazing, wide-eyed and absorbed, at Dr. Atwater.

"She was a wonderfully beautiful girl," he continued, "with a color like English roses in her cheeks. The Chinese called her 'Flower-maiden,' or 'Hor-lÚ.' She had but recently come to the mission from her home in England. Well, it was a case of love at first sight on both sides! And before many more months Ferris announced to me that he was going back into the position at the tea-house and there earn enough money to be able to marry her. But he also told me that Miss Marlowe, while very much in love with him, was still very devoted to her work there and very earnest about the cause for which she had left her home and come so far to serve. She insisted that, if they married, she must still be allowed to continue in the missionary work. To this he was perfectly willing to assent.

"So they were married in the English mission at Amoy, and on the wedding-day he gave her this pair of bracelets which he had had made after his own design. They were not an expensive gift, but he was poor, in worldly goods, and it was the best he could afford. After the honeymoon they built a little home on the island of Ko-longsu, right near the city of Amoy. He went on with his work in the tea-house, and she with her teaching in the mission-school on the island.

"It seemed an ideal arrangement, and they were ideally happy for a number of years. He never advanced very far in the tea-house, for he loved his music too well and he had no head for business. But he made enough to keep them comfortably, and more they did not want.

"Then about 1898, I think, came a change. To their great joy a little daughter was born to them. She was a beautiful baby, and for over a year there was no happier home in all China. But one day, when the baby was about a year and a half old, Ferris came to me and told me he was in trouble and wanted my advice.

"He began by telling me that the baby seemed to be drooping and that he himself was not feeling quite up to the mark. I looked them both over and found he was right. The climate was too much for them. It is for many foreigners sooner or later. I told him they ought to go home for a year or so and recuperate. He said he couldn't—didn't have any home to go to, in fact. Had long ago quarreled violently with his people, and would never go back to them. Moreover, he had his wife and baby to consider. He couldn't afford to give up and lose his position. If he did, what were they to do?

"I suggested that they go to his wife's people in England. He said there was difficulty in that direction, too. She had only a married brother and his wife, and they had not approved of her giving up all her prospects to come to China as a missionary. They heard from them only at long intervals, though recently, to be sure, they had offered to take care of the little girl if the time came that she needed change of air.

"Ferris told me that he and his wife naturally could not bear to consider such a thing, but on the other hand, the baby's welfare must be their first consideration. What should I advise them to do?

"I considered the matter carefully, and at last told him he'd better accept the offer to care for the baby for a year or so. She, at least, would be provided for, and he and his wife could then take their chances without imperiling her future. To follow this advice nearly broke their hearts, but the next missionaries who went back to England on furlough took the baby with them, and gave her into the care of the brother and his wife. It is needless to say that Cecily Ferris is the same whom we know as Cecily Marlowe. I would recognize her anywhere, for she is the image of her mother." And he looked toward the girl sitting in the dim light, held by the wonder of his story. The silence that ensued was broken first by her.

"Tell me, if you please," she half whispered, "did my father ever—ever play to me on his violin? Do you know what he played?"

"Why, I'm sure he did," smiled Dr. Atwater. "I used to stop at his house early in the evening sometimes, and I generally found him fiddling away by the side of your cradle. Mostly it was an air he called 'TrÄumerei,' or something like that. I'm not very good at remembering musical names."

"I knew it!—I knew I'd heard it somewhere, over and over again, when I was little!" she cried. "And yet I never could remember anything else about it!"

"He used to say it was his favorite," remarked Dr. Atwater.

Suddenly Miss Benedict spoke, for the first time during the recital. There was a tremble of suppressed excitement in her voice.

"Is that all the story?"

"Oh, no!" resumed Dr. Atwater. "There's not much more to tell, but I'm sorry to say, the rest is not very cheerful. After the baby's departure Ferris's health failed perceptibly. He finally gave up his position, but Mrs. Ferris kept on with her work and nursed him as well. But the strain of all this began to tell on her, and at last, in 1900, I advised her to take a holiday, and go north to Tientsin with her husband to recuperate. We missionaries raised enough among ourselves to finance this little vacation for them. Before he went, however, Ferris had a long talk with me one day, and confided to me a few things about himself and his past. To begin with, he said that Archibald Ferris was not his right name. He had assumed it at a certain period of his life because he had broken away from his family, and did not deem it best that what remained of that family should ever know he existed. They probably thought him dead—in fact he was sure that they did. And his return to existence, so far as they were concerned, would simply complicate family affairs. Only his wife knew who these relatives were. He had recently, however, sent word to his wife's brother that should anything ever happen by which Cecily would be left alone, she should be sent to America and placed in the care of this family, whose name he had given them under the seal of secrecy, if the brother and his wife were unable or unwilling to provide for her. He also sent one of the bracelets to England to be given to his little daughter, requesting that she be always allowed to keep it. The mother always wore the other one.

"He was very much depressed that day, and told me, besides, that his career had been wrecked in the beginning—that he had dreamed of being a great violinist, but had been thwarted in strange ways. However, he declared that his life in China had been happy beyond words, except for the unhappy present. Then he bade me good-by, as he was starting for Tientsin the next day."

Dr. Atwater stopped abruptly and swallowed hard, as if what he had to tell next came with an effort. He went on presently. "It was at the time of the Boxer uprising. Ferris and his wife had almost reached Tientsin when the trouble broke out there, and—they were never seen alive again!" He stopped, and there was a tense silence in the room.

At last he continued: "I have always blamed myself for having been the unwitting cause of their death. I had advised them to go to Tientsin, though of course I could not foresee the dark days that were about to come. I wish with all my soul that I had not done so, that I had, perhaps, sent them somewhere else, but it is irrevocable now. There is no use dwelling on the past.

"Doubtless that is how the other bracelet came to be cast loose on the Oriental world. Probably it was stolen at the time, and passed from hand to hand till it came into the possession of Captain Brett. It is a strange coincidence that brought it back at last to its mate!

"It became my sad duty to notify Mr. Marlowe of the tragedy. In his reply—a frank, manly letter—he expressed his regret that a difference of opinion had ever interrupted the cordiality of his relations with his sister and her husband, and said that, as he and his wife already loved little Cecily devotedly, they would adopt her as their own. They were reluctant to have her childhood shadowed by her parents' sorrowful story, and so believed it best that she should never know that she was not indeed their daughter, Cecily Marlowe.

"Well, that is the story of the man who called himself Archibald Ferris," said Dr. Atwater. He looked about him inquiringly and added: "I hope that my telling it has given all the enlightenment that was expected?"

During his long recital every one had sat with eyes fastened upon him, and no one of his audience had a thought for the other. Now that it was over they each drew a long breath and settled back in their chairs. And then, for the first time, they noticed the curious conduct of Miss Benedict.

She was sitting far forward in her chair, her big gray eyes almost starting from her head, her hands clutching the arms of the chair till the blue veins stood out. On her forehead were great beads of perspiration, and she drew her breath in little gasps. Quite unconscious of their united gaze, she leaned forward and touched Dr. Atwater's arm with an imploring hand.

"Was there—was there no way of—of ascertaining his real name?" she stammered.

Dr. Atwater looked at her with compassion in his kindly eyes. "I know of but one thing that might have served as an identification," he conceded. "When I was giving him the medical examination, I noticed on his left upper arm two small initials surrounded by a tiny row of dots. They were just such a mark as small boys often tattoo themselves with in indelible ink, and of course, they are there for life. Doubtless he had so decorated himself with his initials in his boyhood days—"

"Oh, what were the initials?" interrupted Miss Benedict in a stifled voice.

"They were 'S.B.,'" replied Dr. Atwater.

With a little choking cry, Miss Benedict buried her face in her hands.

"Oh, it can't—it can't be possible!" they heard her murmur. Then in an instant she had collected herself and gazed about at them all, amazement and incredulity in her lovely eyes.

"My friends," she spoke very quietly, "I cannot understand what this means. My brother's name was Sydney Benedict, and I remember when, as a boy, he had tattooed those initials on his left arm, as Dr. Atwater has described them. And he performed wonderfully on the violin, and dreamed only of being a great artist some day. He longed to go abroad and study, but my father would not hear of it. He wished his only son to enter his business and continue it after him. They were both high-tempered and had many terrible quarrels about it. I—my sister and I—sided with my father. At last my father threatened to disinherit Sydney if he did not accede to his wishes. And on the following morning—it was his twenty-first birthday—we found only a note pinned to his pillow, saying he had gone away forever. He had taken with him only his violin.

"But," and here she hesitated, gazing around inquiringly on the company, "I cannot understand what follows. Two weeks later we received word from a steamer that had just arrived in Europe from New York, that a young man named Sydney Benedict had fallen or jumped overboard one night when they were two days out, and his loss was not discovered till next day. Only his violin remained in the cabin. He was certainly lost at sea. I cannot understand—" She suddenly pressed both hands to her head as if it pained her.

"Wait a moment!" cried Dr. Atwater. "I believe I can explain that. I should have told it before, but I quite forgot; there was so much to tell. He did once confide to me (apropos of some little adventure we had had together on one of my trips, when I almost lost my life) that he too had once had the narrowest kind of escape from death. He said that on leaving America he had taken a steamer for Europe, hoping to find the means to study there. They hadn't passed Sandy Hook, however, before he became violently seasick, and lay in his berth like a log for twenty-four hours. On the second night it became so stiflingly hot in his cabin that he felt he must get to the deck for air or die.

"So he struggled out and up the companionway, somehow, meeting no one, for it was very late. On the deck he crawled in behind a life-boat, and lay in a rather unprotected outer portion of the deck, so sick that he scarcely knew where he was or how dangerous was the spot he had chosen. All of a sudden the vessel gave an unusually heavy lurch, and before he could clutch for any hold he was catapulted into the sea.

"Curiously enough, the sudden ducking dispelled his horrible sickness, and when he came to the surface he found himself striking out to swim. Useless to shout for help from the great steamer, which had already passed a boat's length beyond him. But he was a strong swimmer, the night was warm, and he resolved not to give up till he had to.

"All night, till dawn, he managed to keep on the surface, swimming and floating. And at daylight a sailing-vessel picked him up, numb and weary, and ready to go to the bottom at the next stroke. The ship on which he found himself was bound for China, and of course he had to 'tag along,' working his passage as a common sailor in return for his keep. It was then, I suspect, that he made up his mind to change his name. I think, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Archibald Ferris and Sydney Benedict are one and the same person!"

At this Aunt Minerva, who hadn't spoken a word since her speech of introduction, put on her glasses and swept the assembly with a triumphant gaze. The girls and Captain Brett were so absorbed that they could not utter a syllable, and Miss Benedict sat back in her chair in a stunned silence.

Only Cecily seemed unconscious enough of the strain to do the natural thing. She rose from her chair and went over to Miss Benedict, dropping down on her knees beside her, and snuggling her head on the older woman's shoulder with a confiding movement.

"I'm Cecily Benedict now," she said simply, "and I—I love you—Aunt Alixe! I'm glad there was a good reason why I was sent over here to you!"

Miss Benedict looked down at the golden head, and the terrible tension in her face relaxed.

"Sydney's child!—my little Cecily!" they heard her murmur.

But they heard no more, for at this point, Aunt Minerva arose and majestically motioned the entire company out of the room!