er tongue no itching desire to tell the secret simply because it
was there to be told. She had not threatened, or spoken of her duty,
or boasted of her friendship, but had simply given her advice in
the strongest language which it was within her power to use. On the
next morning she took her leave, and started on her journey without
showing even by a glance that she was possessed of any secret.

"Does she know?" asked Miss Altifiorla as soon as the two were in the
drawing-room together, using a kind of whisper which had now become
habitual to her.

It may almost be said that Mrs. Western had come to hate her friend.
She looked forward to the time of her going as a liberation from
misery. Miss Altifiorla's intrusion at Durton Lodge was altogether
unpalatable to her. She certainly no longer loved her friend, and
knew well that her friend knew that it was so. But still she could
not risk the open enmity of one who knew her secret. And she was
bound to answer the question that was asked her. "Yes, she does know
it."

"And what does she say?"

"It matters not what she says. My request to you is that you should
not speak of it."

"But to yourself!"

"No, not to myself or to any other person here." Then she was silent;
and Miss Altifiorla, pursing up her lips, bethought herself whether
the demands made upon her friendship were not too heavy. But there
still remained five days of the visit.

CHAPTER IX.

MISS ALTIFIORLA'S DEPARTURE.

The fortnight was nearly gone, and Miss Altifiorla was to start early
on the following morning. Cecilia had resolved that she would tell
her story to her husband as soon as they were alone together, and
make a clean breast. She would tell him everything down as far as she
could, to the little feelings which had prevented her from speaking
before, to Miss Altifiorla's abominable interference, and to Lady
Grant's kind advice. She would do this as soon as Miss Altifiorla was
out of the house. But she could not quite bring herself to determine
on the words she would use. She was resolved, however, that in
owning her fault she would endeavour to disarm his wrath by special
tenderness. If he were tender;--oh, yes, then she would be tender
in return. If he took it kindly then she would worship him. All the
agony she endured should be explained to him. Of her own folly, she
would speak very severely,--if he treated it lightly. But she would
do nothing to seem to deprecate his wrath. As