about it. You can
trust me, can't you? You know I wouldn't deceive you. Well, I tell you
that you can't have done anything that you would be sent to prison
for--that's all nonsense. Do you understand? Harold Caffyn said that
to frighten you. No one in the world would ever dream of sending you
to prison, whatever you'd done. Are you satisfied now?'

Rather to Mark's embarrassment, she threw her arms round his neck in a
fit of half-hysterical joy and relief. 'Tell me again,' she cried;
'you're _sure_ it's true--they can't send me to prison? Oh, I don't
care now. I am so glad you came--so glad. I _will_ tell you all about
it now. I want to!'

But some instinct kept Mark from hearing this confession; he had
overcome the main difficulty--the rest was better left in more
delicate hands than his, he thought. So he said, 'Never mind about
telling me, Dolly; I'm sure it wasn't anything very bad. But suppose
you go and find Mabel, and tell her; then you'll be quite happy
again.'

'Will _you_ come too?' asked Dolly, whose heart was now completely
won.

So Mark and she went hand-in-hand to the little boudoir at the back of
the house where they had had their first talk about fairies, and found
Mabel in her favourite chair by the window; she looked round with a
sudden increase of colour as she saw Mark.

'I mustn't stay,' he said, after shaking hands. 'I ought not to come
at all, I'm afraid, but I've brought a young lady who has a most
tremendous secret to confess, which she's been making herself, and you
too, unhappy about all this time. She has come to find out if it's
really anything so very awful after all.'

And he left them together. It was hard to go away after seeing so
little of Mabel, but it was a sacrifice she was capable of
appreciating.

CHAPTER XX.

A DECLARATION--OF WAR.

On the morning of the day which witnessed Dolly's happy deliverance
from the terrors which had haunted her so long, Mabel had received a
note from Harold Caffyn. He had something to say to her, he wrote,
which could be delayed no longer--he could not be happy until he had
spoken. If he were to call some time the next morning, would she see
him--alone?

These words she read at first in their most obvious sense, for she had
been suspecting for some time that an interview of this kind was
coming, and even felt a little sorry for Harold, of whom she was
beginning to think more kindly. So she wrote a few carefully worded
lines, in