he letter out of her desk.

Yet when it was given to her she held it in her hand under the
bedclothes, saying to herself that she would not destroy it, yet,
because, even though she _had_ failed, there might come a time when it
would prove to Maurice how much she loved him. She was so absorbed in
this thought that she did not grieve much for Bingo. "Poor little
Bingo," she said, vaguely, when Mrs. Houghton told her that the little
dog was dead; "he was so jealous." Now, with Maurice coming nearer every
hour, she could not think of Bingo; she was face to face with a
decision! What should she tell him about the "accident"?

It was in the afternoon of the day that Maurice was to arrive,--he had
telegraphed that he would reach Mercer in the evening;--that she had a
sudden panic about Edith. "She was here that night and saw me. I know
she laughed at me because I hadn't any hat on! She may--suspect? If she
does, she'll tell him! What shall I do to stop her?" She couldn't think
of any way to stop her! She couldn't hold her thoughts steady enough to
reach a decision. First would come gladness of her own comfort and
safety, and the warm, warm bed; then shame, that she had faltered and
run away from a chance to do a great thing for Maurice; then terror that
Edith would make her ridiculous to Maurice. Then all these thoughts
would whirl about, run backward: First, terror of Edith! then shame!
then comfort! Suddenly the terror thought held fast with a question.
"Suppose I make her promise not to tell Maurice anything? I think she
would keep a promise...." It would be dreadful to ask the favor of
secrecy of Edith--just as she had asked the same sort of favor of
Lily--but to seem silly to Maurice would be more dreadful than to ask a
favor! She held to this purpose of humiliating self-protection, long
enough to ask Mrs. Houghton when Edith was coming down from Green Hill.

"Why, she's here, now, in the house!" Edith's mother said.

"_Here?_" Eleanor said, despairingly. If Edith was here, then Maurice,
when he came, would see her and she would tell him! "She would make a
funny story of it," Eleanor thought; "I know her! She would make him
laugh. I can't bear it! ... I would like to speak to Edith," she told
Mrs. Houghton, faintly.

Edith, summoned by her mother, stood for a rigid moment outside
Eleanor's door, trying to get herself in hand. In these anxious days,
Edith's youth had been threatened by assailing waves of a remorse tha