e paid
his penalty. And was I not to forgive, when I loved him? God forgives,
Phoebe." Half of what she had come to know had slipped away from her
already; and, though she was accepting her sister as a living reality,
the forged letter, the cause of all, was forgotten.

Granny Marrable, on the contrary, kept in all her bewilderment a firm
hold on the wickedness of Daverill the father. It was he that had done
it all, and no other. Conceivably, her having set eyes on Daverill the
son had made this hold the firmer. To her the name meant treachery and
cruelty. Even in this worst plight of a mind in Chaos, she could not
bear to see the rugged edges of a truth trimmed off, to soften judgment
of a wicked deed. But had she been at her best, she might have borne it
this time to spare her sister the pain of sharing her knowledge, if such
ignorance was possible. As it was, she could not help saying:--"God
forgives, Maisie, and I would have forgiven, if I could have had you
back when he was past the need of you. Oh, to think of the long years we
might still have had, but for his deception!"

"My dear, it may be you are right. But all my head is gone for thinking.
You are there, and that is all I know. How could I?... What _is_ it
all?"

The despair in her voice did not unnerve her sister more. Rather, if
anything, it strengthened her, as did anything that drew her own mind
out of itself to think only of her fellow-sufferer. She could but
answer, hesitatingly:--"My dear, was I not here all the while you
thought me dead?... If you had known ... oh, if you had known!... you
might have come." She could not keep back the sound of her despair in
her own voice.

Maisie started spasmodically from her pillow.

"Oh, God have mercy on me! Save me, Phoebe, save me!" she cried. She
clung with both hands to her sister, and gasped for breath. Then the
paroxysm of her excitement passed, and she sank back, whispering aloud
in broken speech:--"I mean ... it came back to me ... the tale ... the
letter.... Oh, but it cannot be true!... Tell it me again--tell me what
you know."

Phoebe's response flagged. What could her old brain be said to _know_,
yet, in such a whirl? "I'll try, my dear, to say it out right, for you
to hear. But 'tis a hard thing to know, and 'tis hard to have to know
it. Dr. Nash said it to me, that it was Thornton, your husband. And our
young lady of the Towers--she, my dear, you know, that is Lady Gwendolen
Rivers--said it