“You will not tell; you dare not!” said Evelyn, with passion. “If you did I would tell about Jasper – I would. Oh! I would not leave a stone unturned to make your life miserable. There, Sylvia, forgive me; I did not mean to scold. I like you so much, dear Sylvia; and I am so glad you have Jasper with you, and it suits me to perfection. But I did tear the leaves out of the book; yes, I did, and I am glad I did; and you must never, never tell.”

“But, Eve – oh, Eve! why did you do such a dreadful thing?”

“I did it in a fit of temper, to spite that horrid Miss Thompson; I hate her so! She was so intolerably cheeky; she made me stay in during recreation on the very first day, and she accused me of telling lies, and when she had left the room I saw the odious book lying on the table. I had seen her reading it before, and I thought it was her book; and almost before I had time to think, the pages were out and torn up and in the fire. If I had known it was Miss Henderson’s book, of course, I should not have done it. But I did not know. I meant to punish horrid old Thompson, and it seems I have succeeded better than I expected.”

“But, Eve – Eve, the whole school is suspected now. What are you going to do?”

“Do!” replied Evelyn. “Nothing.”

“But you have been asked, have you not, whether you knew anything about the injury to the book?”

“I have, and I told a nice little whopper – a nice pretty little whopper – a dear, charming little whopper – and I mean to stick to it.”

“Eve!”

“You look shocked. Well, cheer up; it has not been your fault. I must confide in some one, so I have told you, and you may tell Jasper if you like. Dear old Jasper! she will applaud me for my spirit. Oh dear! do you know, Sylvia, I think you are rather a tiresome girl. I thought you too would have admired the plucky way I have acted.”

“How can I admire deceit and lies?” replied Sylvia in a low tone.

“You dare say those words to me!”

“Yes, I dare. Oh, you have made me unhappy! Oh, you have destroyed my day! Oh Eve, Eve, why did you do it?”

“You won’t tell on me, please, Sylvia? You have promised that, have you not?”

“Oh, why should I tell? It is not my place. But why did you do it?”

“If you will not tell, nothing matters. I have done it, and it is not your affair.”

“Yes, it is, now that you have confided in me. Oh, you have made me unhappy!”

“You are a goose! But you may tell dear Jasper; and tell her too that her little Eve will wait for her at the turnstile on Tuesday night at nine o’clock. Now then, let’s get ready or we shall be late for dinner.”

CHAPTER XX. – “NOT GOOD NOR HONORABLE.”

It was very late indeed when Sylvia got home. On this occasion she was not allowed to return to The Priory unaccompanied; Lady Frances insisted on Read going with her. Read said very little as the two walked over the roads together; but she was ever a woman of few words. Sylvia longed to question her, as she wanted to take as much news as possible to Jasper, but Read’s face was decidedly uninviting. As soon as the woman had gone, Sylvia slipped round to the back entrance, where Jasper was waiting for her. Jasper had the gate ajar, and Pilot was standing by her side.

“Come, darling – come right in,” she said. “The coast is clear, and, oh! I have a lot to tell you.”

She fastened the back gate, making it look as though it had not been disturbed for years, and a moment later the woman and the girl were standing in the warm kitchen.

“The door is locked, and he will not come,” said Jasper. “He is quite well, and I heard him go up-stairs to his bed an hour ago.”

“And did he eat anything, Jasper?”

“Oh, did he not, my love? Oh, I am fit to die with laughter when I think of it! He imagines that he has demolished one quarter of the scraggiest hen in the hen-house.”

“What! old Wallaroo?” replied Sylvia, a smile breaking over her face.

“Wallaroo, or whatever outlandish name you like to call the bird.”

“Please tell me all about it.”

Sylvia sank down as she spoke into a chair. Jasper related her morning’s adventure, and the two laughed heartily.

“Only it seems a shame to deceive him,” said Sylvia at last. “And so Wallaroo has really gone! Do you know, I shall miss her; I have stood and watched her antics for so many long days. She was the most outrageous flirt of any bird I have ever come across, and so indignant when old Roger paid the least attention to any of his other wives.”

“She has passed her flirting days,” replied Jasper, “and is now the property of little Tim Donovan in the village; perhaps, however, she will get more food there. My dear Miss Sylvia, you must make up your mind that each one of those birds has to be disposed of in secret, and that I in exchange get in sleek and fat young fowls for your father’s benefit. But now, that is enough on the subject for the present. Tell me all about Miss Evelyn; I am just dying to hear.”

“She will meet you on Tuesday evening at nine o’clock by the turnstile in the shrubbery,” replied Sylvia.

“That is right. What a brave, dear, plucky pet she is!”

Sylvia was silent.

“What is the matter with you, Miss Sylvia? Had you not a happy day?”

“I had – very, very happy until just before dinner.”

“And what happened then?”

“I will tell you in the morning, Jasper – not to-night. Something happened then. I am sorry and sad, but I will tell you in the morning. I must slip up to bed now without father knowing it.”

“Your father thinks that you are in bed, for I went up, just imitating your step to perfection, an hour before he did, and I went into your room and shut the door; and when he went up he knocked at the door, and I answered in your voice that I had a bit of a headache and had gone to bed. He asked me if I had had any supper, and I said no; and he said the best thing for a headache was to rest the stomach. Bless you! he is keen on that, whatever else he is not keen on. He went off to his bed thinking you were snug in yours. When I made sure that he was well in his bed, which I could tell by the creaking of the bedstead, I let myself out. I had oiled the lock previously. I shut the door without making a sound loud enough to wake a mouse, and crept down-stairs; and here I am. You must not go up to-night or you will give me away, and there will be a fine to-do. You must sleep in my cozy room to-night.”

“Well, I do not mind that,” replied Sylvia. “How clever you are, Jasper! You really did manage most wonderfully; only again I must say it seems a shame to deceive my dear old father.”

“It is a question of dying in the cause of your dear old father or deceiving him,” replied Jasper in blunt tones. “Now then, come to bed, my love, for if you are not dead with sleep I am.”

The next morning Mr. Leeson was in admirable spirits. He met Sylvia at breakfast, and congratulated her on the long day she had spent in the open air.

“And you look all the better for it,” he said. “I was too busy to think about you at tea-time; indeed, I did not have any tea, having consumed a most admirable luncheon some time before one o’clock. I was so very busy attending to my accounts all the afternoon that I quite forgot my dear little girl. Well, I have made arrangements, dearest, to buy shares in the Kilcolman Gold-mines. The thing may or may not turn up trumps, but in any case I have made an effort to spare a little money to buy some of the shares. That means that we must be extra prudent and careful for the next year or so. You will aid me in that, will you not, Sylvia? You will solemnly promise me, my dear and only child, that you will not give way to recklessness; when you see a penny you will look at it two or three times before you spend it. You have not the least idea how careful it makes you to keep what I call close and accurate accounts, every farthing made to produce its utmost value, and, if possible – if possible, my dear Sylvia – saved. It is surprising how little man really wants here below; the luxuries of the present day are disgusting, enervating, unnecessary. I speak to you very seriously, for now and then, I grieve to say, I have seen traces in you of what rendered my married life unhappy.”

“Father, you must not speak against mother,” said Sylvia. Her face was pale and her voice trembled. “There was no one like mother,” she continued, “and for her sake I – ”

“Yes, Sylvia, what do you do for her sake?”

“I put up with this death in life. Oh father, father, do you think I really – really like it?”

Mr. Leeson looked with some alarm at his child. Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears; she laid her hands on the table, bent forward, and looked full across at her father.

“For mother’s sake I bear it; you cannot think that I like it!” she repeated.

Mr. Leeson’s first amazement now gave place to cold displeasure.

“We will not pursue this topic,” he said. “I have something more to tell you. I made a pleasant discovery yesterday. During your absence a strange thing occurred. A gipsy woman entered the avenue and walked up to the front door, unmolested by Pilot. She seemed to have a strange power over Pilot, for the dog did not bar her entrance in the least. I naturally went to see what she wanted, and she told me that she had come, thinking I might have some fowls for sale. Now, you know, my dear, those old birds in the hen-house have long been eating their heads off, and I rather hailed an opportunity of getting rid of them; they only lay eggs – and that but a few – in the warm weather, and during the winter we are at a loss by our efforts to keep them alive.”

“I know plenty about fowls,” said Sylvia then. “They need hot suppers and all sorts of good things to make them lay eggs in cold weather.”

“We can do without eggs, but we cannot afford to give the fowls hot suppers,” said Mr. Leeson in a tone of great dignity. “But now, Sylvia, to the point. The woman offered a ludicrous price for the birds, and of course I would not part with them; at the same time she incidentally – silly person – gave herself away. She let me understand that she wanted the fowls to stew down in the gipsy pot. Now, of late, when arranging my recipes for publication, I have often thought of the gipsies and the delicious stews they make out of all sorts of things which other people would throw away. It occurred to me, therefore, to question her; and the result was, dear, not to go too much into particulars, that she killed one of the fowls, and in a very short time brought me a delicious stew made out of the bird, really as tasty and succulent as anything I have ever swallowed. I paid her a trifle for her services, and the remainder of the fowl is at the present moment lying in the cupboard in our sitting-room. I should like it to be warmed up for our midday repast; there is a great deal more there than we can by any possibility consume, but we can have a dainty meal out of part of the stew, and the rest can be saved for supper. I have further decided that we must get some one to kill the rest of the birds, and we will have them one by one on the table. Do you ever, my dear Sylvia, in your perambulations abroad, go near any of the gipsies? – for, if so, I should not mind giving you a shilling to purchase that woman’s recipe.”

Sylvia at this juncture rose from the table. She had with the utmost difficulty kept her composure while her father was so innocently talking about the gipsy’s stew.

“I will see – I will see, father. I quite understand,” she said; and the next instant she ran out of the room.

“Really,” thought Mr. Leeson when she had gone, “Sylvia talks a little strangely at times. Just think how she spoke just now of her happy home! Death in life, she called it – a most wrong and exaggerated term; and exaggeration of speech leads to extravagance of mind, and extravagance of mind means most reckless expenditure. If I am not very careful my poor child will soon be on the road to ruin. I doubt if I ought to feed her up with dainties – and really that stewed fowl made a rare and delicious dish – but it is the most saving thing I can do; there are enough birds in the hen-house to last Sylvia and me for several weeks to come.”

Meanwhile Sylvia had rushed off to Jasper.

“Oh Jasper!” she said, “I nearly died with laughter, and yet it is horrid to deceive him. Oh! please do not kill any more of the birds for a long time; it is more than I can stand. Father is so delighted; and he has offered me a shilling to buy the recipe from you.”

“Bless you, dear!” replied Jasper, “and I think what I am doing for your father is well worth a shilling, so you had better give it to me.”

“I have not got it yet,” replied Sylvia. “You must live on trust, Jasper; but, oh, it is quite too funny!”

“Now, you sit down just there,” said Jasper, “and tell me what troubled you last night.”

Sylvia’s face changed utterly when Jasper spoke.

“It is about Eve,” she said. “She has done very wrong – very wrong indeed.” And then Sylvia related exactly what had occurred at school.

Jasper stood and listened with her arms akimbo; her face more than once underwent a curious expression.

“And so you blame my little Eve very much?” she said when Sylvia had ceased speaking.

“How can I help it? To get the whole school accused – to tell a lie to do it! Oh Jasper, how can I help myself?”

“You were brought up so differently,” said Jasper. “Maybe if I had had the rearing of you and the loving of you from your earliest days I might have thought with you; as it is, I think with Eve. I could not counsel her to tell. I cannot but admire her spirit when she did what she did.”

“Jasper! Jasper!” said Sylvia in a tone of horror, “you cannot – cannot mean what you are saying! Oh, please unsay those dreadful words! I was hoping – hoping – hoping that you might put things right. What is to be done? There is going to be a great fuss – a great commotion – a great trouble at Miss Henderson’s school. Evelyn can put it right by confessing; are you not going to urge her to confess?”

“I urge my darling to lower herself! Miss Sylvia, if you say that kind of thing to me again, you and I can scarcely be friends.”

“Jasper! Jasper!”

“We won’t talk about it,” said Jasper, with decision. “I love you, miss, and what is more, I respect and admire you, but I cannot rise as high as you, Miss Sylvia; I was not reared so. I do not think that my little Eve could have done other than she did when she was so tempted.”

“Then, Jasper, you are a bad friend to Evelyn – a very bad friend; and what is more, if there is great trouble at the school, and if Audrey gets into it, and if Evelyn herself will never tell, why, I must.”

“Oh, good gracious! you would not be so mean as that; and the poor, dear little innocent confided in you!”

“I do not want to be so mean, and I will not tell for a long, long time; but I will tell – I will – if no one else can put it right, for it is quite too cruel.”

Jasper looked long and full at Sylvia.

“This may mean a good deal,” she said – “more than you think. And have you no sense of honor, miss? What you are told in confidence, have you any right to give to the world?”

“I will not tell if I can help myself, but this matter has made me very unhappy indeed.”

Then Sylvia put on her shabby hat and went out. She passed the fowl-house, and stood for a moment, a sad smile on her face, looking down at the ill-fed birds. Then she went along the tiny shrubbery to the front entrance, and, accompanied as usual by her beloved Pilot, started forth. She was in her very shabbiest and oldest dress to-day, and the joy and brightness of her appearance of twenty-four hours ago had absolutely left her young face. It was Sunday morning, but Sylvia never went to church. She heard the bells ringing now. Sweetly they pealed across the valley, and one little church on the top of the hill sent forth a low and yet joyful chime. Sylvia longed to press her hands to her ears; she did not want to listen to the church bells. Those who went to church did right, not wrong; those who went to church listened to God’s Word, and followed the ways – the good and holy ways – of religion.

“And I cannot go because of my shabby, shabby dress,” she thought. “But why should I not wear the beautiful dress I had yesterday and venture to church?”

No sooner had the thought come to her than she returned, dashed in by the back entrance, desired Pilot to stay where he was, flew up-stairs, dressed herself recklessly in her rich finery of yesterday, and started off for church. She had a fancy to go to the church on the top of the hill, but she had to walk fast to reach it. She did arrive there a little late. The verger showed her into a pew half-way up the church. One or two people turned to stare at the handsome girl. The brilliant color was in her cheeks from the quickness of her walk. She dropped on her knees and covered her face; all was confusion in her mind. In the Squire’s pew, a very short distance away, sat Audrey and Evelyn. Could Evelyn indeed mean to pray? Of what sort of nature was Evelyn made? Sylvia felt that she could not meet her eyes.

“Some people who are not good, who are not honorable, go to church,” she thought to herself. “It is very sad and very puzzling.”

CHAPTER XXI. – THE TORN BOOK

On the following morning Audrey and Evelyn started off for school. On the way Audrey turned to her companion.

“I wonder if anything has been discovered with regard to the injured book?” she said.

“Oh, I wish you would not talk so continually about that stupid old fuss!” said Evelyn in her crossest voice.

“It is useless to shirk it,” was Audrey’s reply. “You do not suppose for a single moment that Miss Henderson will not get to the bottom of the mischief? For my part, I think I could understand a girl doing it just for a moment in a spirit of revenge, although I have never yet felt revengeful to any one – but how any one could keep it up and allow the school to get into trouble is what puzzles me.”

“Were you ever at school before, Audrey?” was Evelyn’s remark.

“No; were you?”

“I wish I had been; I have always longed for school.”

“Well, you have your wish at last. How do you like it?”

“I should like it fairly well if I were put into a higher form, and if this stupid fuss were not going on.”

“Why do you dislike the subject being mentioned so much?”

Evelyn colored slightly. Audrey looked at her. There was no suspicion in Audrey’s eyes; it was absolutely impossible for her to connect her cousin with anything so mean and low. Evelyn had a great many objectionable habits, but that she could commit what was in Audrey’s opinion a very grave sin, and then tell lies about it, was more than the young girl could either imagine or realize.

The pretty governess-cart took them to school in good time, and the usual routine of the morning began. It was immediately after prayers, however, that Miss Henderson spoke from her desk to the assembled school.

“I am sorry to tell you all,” she began, “that up to the present I have not got the slightest clue to the mystery of the injured book. I have questioned, I have gone carefully into every particular, and all I can find out is that the book was left in classroom No. 4 (which is usually occupied by the girls of the Fourth Form); that it was placed there at nine o’clock in the morning, and was not used again by Miss Thompson until school was over – namely, between five and six o’clock in the evening. During that time, as far as I can make out, only one girl was alone in the room. That girl was Evelyn Wynford. I do not in any way accuse Evelyn Wynford of having committed the sin – for sin it was – but I have to mention the fact that she was alone in the room during recess, having failed to learn a lesson which had been set her. During the afternoon the room was, as far as I can tell, empty for a couple of hours, and of course some one may have come in then and done the mischief. I therefore have not the slightest intention of suspecting a girl who only arrived that morning; but I mention the fact, all the same, that Evelyn Wynford was alone in the room for the space of twenty minutes.”

While Miss Henderson was speaking all eyes were turned in Evelyn’s direction; all eyes saw a white and stubborn face, and two angry brown eyes that flashed almost wildly round the room and then looked down. Just for an instant a few of the girls said to themselves, “That is a guilty face.” But again they thought, “How could she do it? Why should she do it? No, it certainly cannot be Evelyn Wynford.”

As to Audrey, she pitied Evelyn very much. She thought it extremely hard on her that Miss Henderson should have singled her out for individual notice on this most painful occasion, and out of pity for her she would not once glance in her direction.

Miss Henderson paused for a moment; then she continued:

“Whoever the sinner may be, I am determined to sift this crime to the bottom. I shall severely punish the girl who tore the book unless she makes up her mind to confess to me between now and to-morrow evening. If she confesses before school is over to-morrow evening, I shall not only not punish but I shall forgive her. It will be my painful duty, however, to oblige her to confess her sin before the entire school, as in no other way can the rest of the girls be exonerated. I give her till to-morrow evening to make up her mind. I hope she will ask for strength from above to enable her to make this very painful confession. I myself shall pray that she may be guided aright. If no one comes forward by that time, I must again assemble the school to suggest a very terrible alternative.”

Here Miss Henderson left the room, and the different members of the school went off to their respective duties.

School went on much as usual. The girls were forced to attend to their numerous duties; the all-absorbing theme was therefore held more or less in abeyance for the time being. At recess, however, knots of girls might be seen talking to one another in agitated whispers. The subject of the injured book was the one topic on every one’s tongue. Evelyn produced chocolates, crystallized fruits, and other dainties from a richly embroidered bag which she wore at her side, and soon had her own little coterie of followers. To these she imparted her opinion that Miss Henderson was not only a fuss, but a dragon; that probably a servant had torn the book – or perhaps, she added, Miss Thompson herself.

“Why,” said Evelyn, “should not Miss Thompson greatly dislike Miss Henderson, and tear the outside page out of the book just to spite her?”

But this theory was not received as possible by any one to whom she imparted it. Miss Thompson was a favorite; Miss Thompson hated no one; Miss Thompson was the last person on earth to do such a shabby thing.

“Well,” said Evelyn crossly, “I don’t know who did it; and what is more, I don’t care. Come and walk with me, Alice,” she said to a pretty little curly-headed girl who sat next to her at class. “Come and let me tell you about all the grandeur which will be mine by and by. I shall be queen by and by. It is a shame – a downright shame – to worry a girl in my position with such a trifle as a torn book. The best thing we can all do is to subscribe amongst ourselves and give the old dragon another Sesame and Lilies. I don’t mind subscribing. Is it not a good thought?”

“But that will not help her,” said Alice; while Cherry, who stood near, solemnly shook her head.

“Why will it not help her?” asked Evelyn.

“Because it was the inscription she valued – the inscription in her brother’s writing; her brother who is dead, you know.”

Evelyn was about to make another pert remark when a memory assailed her. Naughty, heartless, rude as she was, she had somewhere a spark of feeling. If she had loved any one it was the excitable and strange woman she had called “mothery.”

“If mothery gave me something and wrote my name in it I’d be fond of it,” she thought; and just for a moment a prick of remorse visited her hard little heart.

No other girl in the whole school could confess the crime which Evelyn had committed, and the evening came in considerable gloom and excitement. Audrey could talk of nothing else on their way home.

“It is terrible,” said Audrey. “I am really sorry we are both at the school; it makes things so unpleasant for us. And you, Evelyn – I did pity you when Miss Henderson said to-day that you were alone in the room. Did you not feel awful?”

“No, I did not,” replied Evelyn. “At least, perhaps I did just for a minute.”

“Well, it was very brave of you. I should not have liked to be in your position.”

Evelyn turned the conversation.

“I wonder whether any one will confess to-morrow,” said Audrey again.

“Perhaps it was one of the servants,” remarked Evelyn. Then she said abruptly, “Oh, do let us change the subject!”

“There is something fine about Evelyn after all,” thought Audrey; “And I am so glad! She took that speech of Miss Henderson’s very well indeed. Now, I scarcely thought it fair to have her name singled out in the way it was. Surely Miss Henderson could not have suspected my little cousin!”

At dinner Audrey mentioned the whole circumstance of the torn book to her parents. The girls were again dining with the Squire and Lady Frances. The Squire was interested for a short time; he then began to chat with Evelyn, who was fast, in her curious fashion, becoming a favorite of his. She was always at her best in his society, and now nestled up close to him, and said in an almost winsome manner:

“Don’t let us talk about the old fuss at school.”

“Whom do you call the old fuss, Evelyn?”

“Miss Henderson. I don’t like her a bit, Uncle Edward.”

“That is very naughty, Evelyn. Remember, I want you to like her.”

“Why?”

“Because for the present, at least, she is your instructress.”

“But why should I like my instructress?”

“She cannot influence you unless you like her.”

“Then she will never influence me, because I shall never like her,” cried the reckless girl. “I wish you would teach me, Uncle Edward. I should learn from you; you would influence me because I love you.”

“I do try to influence you, Evelyn, and I want you to do a great many things for me.”

“I would do anything in all the world for him,” thought Evelyn, “except confess that I tore that book; but that I would not do even for him. Of course, now that there has been such an awful fuss, I am sorry I did it, but for no other reason. It is one comfort, however, they cannot possibly suspect me.”

Lady Frances, however, took Audrey’s information in a very different spirit from what her husband did. She felt indignant at Evelyn’s having been singled out for special and undoubtedly unfavorable notice by Miss Henderson, and resolved to call at the school the next day to have an interview with the head-mistress. She said nothing to Audrey about her intention, and the girls went off to school without the least idea of what Lady Frances was about to do. Her carriage stopped before Chepstow House a little before noon. She inquired for Miss Henderson, and was immediately admitted into the head-mistress’s private sitting-room. There Miss Henderson a moment or two later joined her.

“I am sorry to trouble you,” began Lady Frances at once, “but I have come on a matter which occasioned me a little distress. I allude to the mystery of the torn book. Audrey has told me all about it, so I am in possession of full particulars. Of course I am extremely sorry for you, and can quite understand your feelings with regard to the injury of a book you value so much; but, at the same time, you will excuse my saying, Miss Henderson, that I think your mentioning Evelyn’s name in the way you did was a little too obvious. It was uncomfortable for the poor child, although I understand from my daughter that she took it extremely well.”

“In a case of this kind,” replied Miss Henderson quietly, “one has to be just, and not to allow any favoritism to appear.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Lady Frances; “it was my wish in sending both girls to school that they should find their level.”

“And I regret to say,” answered Miss Henderson, “that your niece’s level is not a high one.”

“Alas! I am aware of it. I have been terribly pained since Evelyn came home by her recklessness and want of obedience; but this is a very different matter. This shows a most depraved nature; and of course you cannot for a moment have suspected my niece when you spoke of her being alone in the room.”

“Had any other girl been alone in the room I should equally have mentioned her name,” said Miss Henderson. “I certainly did not at the time suspect Miss Wynford.”

“What do you mean by ‘did not at the time’? Have you changed your opinion?”

Lady Frances’s face turned very white.

“I am sorry to say that I have.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you will pardon me for a moment I will explain.”

Miss Henderson left the room.

While she was absent Lady Frances felt a cold dew breaking out on her forehead.

“This is beyond everything,” she thought. “But it is impossible; the child could never have done it. What motive would she have? She is not as bad as that; and it was her very first day at school.”

Miss Henderson re-entered the room, accompanied by Miss Thompson. In Miss Thompson’s hand was a copy of the History of England that Evelyn had been using.

“Will you kindly open that book,” said Miss Henderson, “and show Lady Frances what you have found there?”

Miss Thompson did so. She opened the History at the reign of Edward I. Between the leaves were to be seen two fragments of torn paper. Miss Thompson removed them carefully and laid them upon Lady Frances’s hand. Lady Frances glanced at them, and saw that they were beyond doubt torn from a copy of Ruskin’s Sesame and Lilies. She let them drop back again on to the open page of the book.

“I accuse no one,” said Miss Henderson. “Even now I accuse no one; but I grieve to tell you, Lady Frances, that this book was in the hands of your niece, Evelyn Wynford, on that afternoon. – Miss Thompson, will you relate the entire circumstances to Lady Frances?”