She had just revealed by this little speech a trifle too much, the trifle reflected a light too vivid to Charlotte Harman's mind, her face became crimson.
"I will know the truth," she said, "I will—I must. This story—you say it is about you; is it all about you? has it anything to say to me?"
"No, no, don't ask me—good-bye."
"I stand between you and the door until you speak. How old are you, Mrs. Home?"
"I am twenty-five."
"That is my age. Who was that Charlotte your dying father wished you to be a sister to?"
"I cannot tell you."
"You cannot—but you must. I will know. Was it—but impossible! it cannot be—am I that Charlotte?"
Mrs. Home covered her face with two trembling hands. The other woman, with her superior intellect, had discovered the secret she had feebly tried to guard. There was a pause and a dead silence. That silence told all that was necessary to Charlotte Harman. After a time she said gently, but all the fibre and tune had left her voice,——
"I must think over your story, it is a very, very strange tale. You are right, you cannot come here; good-bye."