own
record been one of sorrow and defeat. Old Maisie took her silence--which
was helplessness against new difficulties--for an encouragement to her
proposal, and continued:--"Why, my dear, look at it this way! If my dear
sister Phoebe had lived, anyone bad enough out there in the Colony,
might have written a lie that I was dead, and who would have known?...
But, my dear, you are ill? You are shaking."

It was a climax. The perfect serenity, the absolute unconsciousness, of
the speaker had told the tale of Gwen's failure more plainly than any
previous rebuff. And here was the old lady trying to get up from her
chair to summon Widow Thrale! Gwen detained her gently; as, having risen
from the stool at her feet, she kneeled beside her.

"No, no--I am not ill.... I will tell you directly."

Moments passed that, to Gwen's impatience for speech she could neither
frame nor utter, might have been hours. Old Maisie's growing wonderment
was bringing back the look she had had over that mill-model. But she
said nothing.

Gwen's voice came at last, audibly to herself, scarcely more. "I want
you--I want you to tell me something...."

"What, my dear?... Oh--to tell you something! Yes--what is it?"

Was the moment at hand, at last? Gwen managed to raise her voice. "I
want you to tell me this:--Has Mrs. Thrale ever told you her mother's
name--I mean her aunt's--Granny Marrable's?"

"Her christened name?--her own name?"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Shall I tell it you?"

"Why not?... Oh, I am frightened to see you so white. My dear!"

"Listen, dear Mrs. Picture, and try to understand. Mrs. Thrale's aunt's
name is Phoebe."

"_Is Phoebe!_"

"Is Phoebe." Gwen repeated it again, looking fixedly at the old face,
now rapidly resuming its former utter bewilderment.

"Is ... Phoebe!" Old Maisie sat on, after echoing back the word, and
Gwen left her to the mercy of its suggestion. She had done her best, and
could do no more.

She saw that some new thought was at work. But it had to plough its way
through stony ground. Give it time!

Watching her intently, she could see the critical moment when the new
light broke. A moment later the hand she held clutched at hers beyond
its strength, and its owner's voice was forcing its way through gasps.
"But ... but ... but ... Widow Thrale's name is _Ruth_!"

"Is Ruth." Yes--leave the fact there, and wait! That was Gwen's
decision.

A moment later what she waited for had come. Old Maisie started,