"And have you not read it?" she demanded, shrinking in her turn till she stood on the threshold by which she had entered. "Why then are you here? What could have brought you back so soon when you knew——"
"This," he interpolated hastily, holding up the book which he had let fall on the table at her entrance. "See! the name of Harriett Smith is written in it. Tell me, I pray, why you kept from me so persistently the fact that you knew the person to whom the property I hold in trust rightfully belongs."
The two girls with a quick glance at each other drooped their heads.
"What was the use?" murmured Emma, "since Harriet Smith is dead and her heirs can never claim the property. We are her heirs, Mr. Etheridge; Harriet Smith was our mother, married to father thirty-nine years ago after a widowhood of only three months. It was never known in this place that she had had a former husband or had borne the name of Smith. There was so much scandal and unhappiness connected with her first most miserable marriage, that she suppressed the facts concerning it as much as possible. She was father's wife and that was all that the people about here knew."
"I see," said Frank, wondering greatly at this romance in real life.
"But you might have told me," he exclaimed. "When you saw what worriment this case was causing me, you might have informed me that I was expending my efforts in vain."
"I wished to do so," answered Emma, "but Hermione dreaded the arguments and entreaties which would follow."
"I could not bear the thought of them," exclaimed the girl from the doorway where she stood, "any more than I can bear the thought now when a matter of much more importance to me demands your attention."
"I will go," cried Frank. But it was to the empty doorway he spoke; Hermione had vanished with these passionate words.
"She is nearly ill," explained Emma, following him as he made for the door. "You must excuse one who has borne so much."