pered room, and sat down in a musty red
arm-chair. The building was one of the old regime, which meant that
its floor was of wide and rather uneven painted boards, its ceiling
low, its windows small, and its general lines of an irregular and
sagging rule-of-thumb tendency. The white wall-paper evidently
concealed squared logs. The present inhabitants, being possessed at
once of rather homely tastes and limited facilities, had
over-furnished the place with an infinitude of little things--little
rugs, little tables, little knit doilies, little racks of photographs,
little china ornaments, little spidery what-nots, and shelves for
books.

Virginia seated herself, and went directly to the topic.

"Mrs. Cockburn," she said, "you have always been very good to me,
always, ever since I came here as a little girl. I have not always
appreciated it, I am afraid, but I am in great trouble, and I want
your help."

"What is it, dearie," asked the older woman, softly. "Of course I will
do anything I can."

"I want you to tell me what all this mystery is--about the man who
to-day arrived from Kettle Portage, I mean. I have asked everybody: I
have tried by all means in my power to get somebody somewhere to tell
me. It is maddening--and I have a special reason for wanting to know."

The older woman was already gazing at her through troubled eyes.

"It is a shame and a mistake to keep you so in ignorance!" she broke
out, "and I have said so always. There are many things you have the
right to know, although some of them would make you very unhappy--as
they do all of us poor women who have to live in this land of dread.
But in this I cannot, dearie."

Virginia felt again the impalpable shadow of truth escaping her.
Baffled, confused, she began to lose her self-control. A dozen times
to-day she had reached after this thing, and always her fingers had
closed on empty air. She felt that she could not stand the suspense of
bewilderment a single instant longer. The tears overflowed and rolled
down her cheeks unheeded.

"Oh, Mrs. Cockburn!" she cried. "Please! You do not know how dreadful
this thing has come to be to me just because it is made so
mysterious. Why has it been kept from me alone? It must have something
to do with me, and I can't stand this mystery, this double-dealing,
another minute. If you won't tell me, nobody will, and I shall go on
imagining--Oh, please have pity on me! I feel the shadow of a tragedy.
It comes out in