but contained--the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief,
renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was
impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon
her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love.

"Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o'clock on the following
morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen."

A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the
country, and Katharine, kneeling upon the floor of the drawing-room,
was sorting them while Cassandra watched her from an arm-chair, and
absent-mindedly made spasmodic offers of help which were not accepted.
The maid's message had a curious effect upon Katharine.

She rose, walked to the window, and, the maid being gone, said
emphatically and even tragically:

"You know what that means."

Cassandra had understood nothing.

"Aunt Celia is in the kitchen," Katharine repeated.

"Why in the kitchen?" Cassandra asked, not unnaturally.

"Probably because she's discovered something," Katharine replied.
Cassandra's thoughts flew to the subject of her preoccupation.

"About us?" she inquired.

"Heaven knows," Katharine replied. "I shan't let her stay in the
kitchen, though. I shall bring her up here."

The sternness with which this was said suggested that to bring Aunt
Celia upstairs was, for some reason, a disciplinary measure.

"For goodness' sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her
chair and showing signs of agitation, "don't be rash. Don't let her
suspect. Remember, nothing's certain--"

Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner
in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete
confidence in her diplomacy.

Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair
in the servants' room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice
of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of
her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat
in the servants' room when she was engaged in confidential family
transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor
Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended
even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious
emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill
provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. She
p