Maria threw out her hands with a gesture of revolt.
"Oh, it is a terrible story," she said, "a terrible story."
"It is an old one, and belongs to terrible times. You have drawn it from me for your own purpose, and be that as it may, I have always believed in giving a straight answer to a straight question. Now such things would be impossible," he added cheerfully; "then, I fear, they were but too probable."
"In your heart you believe that it is true?" He did not flinch from his response. "In my heart I believe that there is more in it than a lie."
Rising from her chair, she turned from him and walked rapidly up and down the room, through the firelight which shimmered over the polished floor. Once she stopped by the window, and, drawing the curtains aside, looked out upon the April sunshine and upon the young green leaves which tinted the distant woods. Then coming back to the hearthrug, she stood gazing down upon him with a serene and resolute expression.
"I am glad now that the Hall will be mine," she said, "glad even that it wasn't left to Will, for who knows how he would have looked at it. There is but one thing to be done: you must see that yourself. At grandfather's death the place must go back to its rightful owners."
"To its rightful owners!" he repeated in amazement, and rose to his feet.
"To the Blakes. Oh, don't you see it—can't you see that there is nothing else to do in common honesty?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"It is very beautiful, my child, but is it reasonable, after all?" he asked.