"And I set a special date for you to get here on purpose, because—well, because I thought we ought to be here to receive you, and have the place look sort of—homelike. It would be terrible, seems to me, to come back to a dark, deserted house that you'd left so long ago, and nobody here to—to welcome you. Well, that's all, I guess. But Mrs. Collingwood, I'm so afraid we haven't done right,—that we meddled in what was no business of ours, and trespassed in a house we should never have entered! I only hope you can forgive us!" Thus ended Cynthia, brokenly, and Mrs. Collingwood put out her hands to take a hand of each girl in her clasp.
"You dear little meddlers!" she exclaimed. "This is all so astonishing to me; but I feel sure, nevertheless, that you have done nothing but good! And now will you—will you show me what you spoke of?"
Cynthia rose, handed her a lighted candle, and led her to the opening of the little stairway in the library. "It's up these stairs, in the room above—on the desk," she said. "You will find it all lit up there. And I think that—you would rather go—alone!" Mrs. Collingwood took the candle, and Cynthia helped her into the opening at the foot of the stairs. Then she went back to Joyce.
When they were alone, the two girls stood staring at one another and Cynthia's cheeks grew fiery red.
"I don't know what—what you must think of me, Joyce!" she stammered. "I ought never to have done this, I suppose, without telling you."
"Why didn't you tell me?" demanded Joyce.
"Why, I was so afraid you'd think me silly and—and meddling, and you mightn't approve of it. I was unhappy,—I—somehow felt as though I'd committed a crime, and the only way to right it was this!"
"How long ago did you send your letter?" asked Joyce, presently.
Cynthia considered. "I think I posted it a week ago Thursday."
"And you knew all the time, last night, that this was going to happen to-day?" asked Joyce incredulously.