When they reached Elsie's room the girl drew Elizabeth in and closed the door. Mrs. Mellen sank wearily into a seat, as if glad to escape from the restraint she had been putting upon herself all that day.

"Your note frightened me so!" cried Elsie. "It was wicked of you to write like that."

"He came upon me so suddenly," gasped Elizabeth. "I was out in the grounds in the rain—I had gone to—"

"And Grantley came upon you there?" interrupted Elsie. "What did you do? what did you do?"

"I fainted in the end."

"Good heavens!"

"Oh, you would have been worse in my place," returned Elizabeth. "It was so sudden; how could I tell what he had seen?"

"But you are yourself now. You will not give way again?"

"I must not," said Elizabeth drearily. "I must bear up now."

"Don't talk in that dreadful voice," shivered Elsie; "it sounds as if you were dying. I thought you had more courage. Don't be afraid of me; if he held a bowl of poison to my lips I wouldn't tell."

"Oh, Elsie, what would death be compared to the agony of discovery?"

"Do stop!" pleaded Elsie, pressing both rosy little palms to her ears, with a piteous, shrinking movement. "We mustn't talk. I won't talk, I tell you! I can put everything out of my head if you will only let me; but if you look and talk like that I shall give way. Why can't you try and forget it? I will. Be sure of that!"

Elizabeth rose from her seat; a wan, hopeless look came over her face.

"You are right; let us be silent. But, oh, if I only could forget—but I can't, Elsie—I can't! The thought is with me day and night. The dread—the fear!"

"Be still!" shrieked Elsie, breaking into a passion of which no one would have believed her capable, and stamping her foot upon the carpet. "You'll drive me mad. I shall go into spasms, and then who knows what may happen! I won't promise not to speak if you drive me crazy."

All the youthful brilliancy was frightened out of her face, her lips turned blue, her whole frame shook so violently that Elizabeth saw absolute danger unless the girl were soothed back to calmness.

"I won't torment you any more, Elsie," she said. "I'll bear it alone—I'll bear it alone."

"One can always forget if one is determined," said Elsie; "but you won't—you will brood over things——"

"I shall be more myself, now," interrupted Elizabeth. "It was from seeing Grantley so unexpectedly, just when I was waiting for——"

"Be still!" interrupted Elsie, sharply. "I won't hear that—I won't hear anything; you shall not force unpleasant things upon me."

The sister and the sister-in-law stood opposite each other, oppressed by the same secret, but bearing it so differently. Elsie's share seemed to be only a burdensome knowledge of some mystery; no evil seemed to threaten her in its discovery, but deep sympathy appeared to have broken through her careless nature, moulding it into something grand. She was the first to recover from the cold, shivering distress which had come over both; the volatile, impressible creature could not dwell long enough upon one subject, however painful it might be, to produce the effect which even slight trouble had upon a character like Elizabeth's.

"You look like a ghost," she cried, in sudden irritation. "It is cruel, Bessie, to frighten me in this way. You know what a weak, nervous little thing I am. It is wicked of you!"

Elizabeth turned slowly towards the door.

"Be at peace, if you can," she said; "I will trouble you no more."

"Now you are angry!" cried Elsie.

"No, dear, not angry."

"Kiss me, then, and make up," said Elsie, with a return of childish playfulness. "I'll help you all I can, but you mustn't put too much on me; you know I'm not strong, like you."

Elizabeth trembled under the touch of those fresh young lips, but she answered, patiently:

"I will bear up alone; don't think about it."

"Oh, I shouldn't," cried Elsie, frankly, "only you make me."

Elizabeth looked at her in astonishment.

"You needn't stare so," said Elsie, in an injured tone; "I know I am not a deep, strong character, like you. But let me rest—let me enjoy my little mite of sunshine!"

"I will not overshadow it," Elizabeth answered, "be certain of that. But, oh, Elsie, it's so dreadful to bear this constant fear! If Grantley should find out anything—he is so suspicious——"

"There you go again!" broke in Elsie. "I vow I wont live in the house with you if you act in this way! Just as one is getting a little comfortable you begin all this again. I can't stand it; and I won't."

Elizabeth did not reply. She looked at Elsie again with a mingled expression of astonishment and fear; but a strange sort of pity softened the glance.

"There shall be no more of it, Elsie," she said, after a long silence, during which Elsie had shivered herself quiet once more. "I ought to have borne this trouble alone from the first."

"That's a nice darling!" cried Elsie. "Nothing will happen, I am sure of it. Just hope for the best; look at everything as settled and over with. Things don't keep coming up to one as they do in a novel."

Elizabeth said no more, she stood leaning against the window frame and watched Elsie as she arranged her ringlets before the glass, and called back the brilliant smiles which softened her face into something so youthful and pretty. Then they heard a voice from below, which made them both start.

"It's Grantley," said Elsie. "It sounds so odd to hear his voice! Open the door, Bessie; I am ready."

She ran to the head of the stairs, while Elizabeth followed slowly.

"Are you calling, Grant?" demanded Elsie, looking down at him as he stood at the foot of the stairs.

"Calling! I should think so! Are you both going to stay up there for ever? Dinner is ready."

"And so are we," cried Elsie, "and coming, Mr. Impatience."

Downstairs she tripped, humming a tune and making a little spring into her brother's arms when she reached the lower step.

She was such a dainty little thing, so light and graceful in all her movements, with such childish ways, such power of persuasion and coquetry, so light-hearted and frivolous, that it was quite impossible not to love her and treat her as if she were some blithe fairy, that would be frightened out of sight by a harsh word or look.

She was just one of those creatures whom everybody fondles and pets, who have sacrifices made for them which they are never capable of appreciating. The loves and fears and hates of these flimsy creatures are shallow and transient, though capable of leading them to great lengths during their first fever; creatures whom we miss as we do sunshine and flowers, or any other pretty thing; for they seem born to feed upon the froth and honey-dew of life, and from that very fact take with them, even towards middle age, a fund of light-heartedness and joyous spirits, which is, in some sort, a return for the demands they make upon others.

It seemed hard that a creature like this should have her youth burdened with any secret; it was scarcely wonderful that she grew impatient and spoke harshly to Elizabeth when she insisted upon forcing trouble on her mind, which left to itself she was able, out of the very shallowness of her nature, to throw aside so completely.

Wrong and cruel it seemed in Elizabeth to burden her thus—she should have kept Elsie aloof from all domestic mysteries, whatever they might be, and have borne her sorrow, her fears, perhaps her remorse, alone. It was not easy to tell from her face or her words all that lay back of her half-uttered despair. But she should have endured in silence things to be held as far away from Elsie's joyousness and Elsie's youth as the deep undercurrent of her character was apart from the bird-like blitheness which made the girl so pleasant. Thus the world would have judged had they seen these women standing there together.