Before Miss Garth could answer the question, she held out her father’s will and her father’s letter.
“Magdalen came back after you went away,” she said, “and found these last relics. She heard Mr. Pendril say they were her legacy and mine. When I went into the garden she was reading the letter. There was no need for me to speak to her; our father had spoken to her from his grave. See how she has listened to him!”
She pointed to the letter. The traces of heavy tear-drops lay thick over the last lines of the dead man’s writing.
“Her tears,” said Norah, softly.
Miss Garth’s head drooped low over the mute revelation of Magdalen’s return to her better self.
“Oh, never doubt her again!” pleaded Norah. “We are alone now—we have our hard way through the world to walk on as patiently as we can. If Magdalen ever falters and turns back, help her for the love of old times; help her against herself.”
“With all my heart and strength—as God shall judge me, with the devotion of my whole life!” In those fervent words Miss Garth answered. She took the hand which Norah held out to her, and put it, in sorrow and humility, to her lips. “Oh, my love, forgive me! I have been miserably blind—I have never valued you as I ought!”
Norah gently checked her before she could say more; gently whispered, “Come with me into the garden—come, and help Magdalen to look patiently to the future.”
The future! Who could see the faintest glimmer of it? Who could see anything but the ill-omened figure of Michael Vanstone, posted darkly on the verge of the present time—and closing all the prospect that lay beyond him?