"I love your music," she said. "I always listen to it whenever you play. I knew you had been playing—just for me—these last few days, and I wanted to look out of my window and—and wave to you, but—I must not. I am always there when you play—listening. I wanted you to know it."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Marcia, delightedly. "I hoped it would please you. I'll play more than ever now. I'll do all my practising there, too."
"Cecily," said Janet, abruptly, venturing on personal ground for the first time, "you are very lonely there, in that big house, with no other young folks, aren't you?"
"Yes," answered Cecily, speaking very low, and glancing in an uncertain way at the gate.
"Well, why don't you ask—er—Miss Benedict, if you couldn't run in and visit us once in a while, or go out for a walk with us sometimes? Surely she wouldn't object to that."
"Oh, no, no!" cried Cecily, hastily. "I'd—oh, how I'd love to, but—but—it wouldn't do,—it wouldn't be allowed! No, I must not." There was nothing more to be said.
"At least, then," added Marcia, "you'll let us know if you need anything else—you'll signal to us?"
"Yes," said Cecily, "I'll do that." She got out the key, and unlocked the gate. Then she faced them with a sudden, passionate sob.
"You are so wonderfully good to me! I love you—both! You're all I have to—care for!"
Then the gate was shut, and they heard her footsteps fleeing up the pathway.