The woman's lean, long-fingered hand pointed to the candle.

"Don't put it out." Saying those words, she looked round theroom, and satisfied herself that the other girls were asleep.

Emily laid down the extinguisher. "You mean to report us, ofcourse," she said. "I am the only one awake, Miss Jethro; lay theblame on me."

"I have no intention of reporting you. But I have something tosay."

She paused, and pushed her thick black hair (already streakedwith gray) back from her temples. Her eyes, large and dark anddim, rested on Emily with a sorrowful interest. "When your youngfriends wake to-morrow morning," she went on, "you can tell themthat the new teacher, whom nobody likes, has left the school."

For once, even quick-witted Emily was bewildered. "Going away,"she said, "when you have only been here since Easter!"

Miss Jethro advanced, not noticing Emily's expression ofsurprise. "I am not very strong at the best of times," shecontinued, "may I sit down on your bed?" Remarkable on otheroccasions for her cold composure, her voice trembled as she madethat request--a strange request surely, when there were chairs ather disposal.

Emily made room for her with the dazed look of a girl in a dream."I beg your pardon, Miss Jethro, one of the things I can't endureis being puzzled. If you don't mean to report us, why did youcome in and catch me with the light?"

Miss Jethro's explanation was far from relieving the perplexitywhich her conduct had caused.

"I have been mean enough," she answered, "to listen at the door,and I heard you talking of your father. I want to hear more abouthim. That is why I came in."

"You knew my father!" Emily exclaimed.

"I believe I knew him. But his name is so common--there are somany thousands of 'James Browns' in England--that I am in fear ofmaking a mistake. I heard you say that he died nearly four yearssince. Can you mention any particulars which might help toenlighten me? If you think I am taking a liberty--"

Emily stopped her. "I would help you if I could," she said. "ButI was in poor health at the time; and I was staying with friendsfar away in Scotland, to try change of air. The news of myfather's death brought on a relapse. Weeks passed before I wasstrong enough to travel--weeks and weeks before I saw his grave!I can only tell you what I know from my aunt. He died ofheart-complaint."

Miss Jethro started.

Emily looked at her for the first time, with eyes that betrayed afeeling of distrust. "What have I said to startle you?" sheasked.

"Nothing! I am nervous in stormy weather--don't notice me." Shewent on abruptly with her inquiries. "Will you tell me the dateof your father's death?"

"The date was the thirtieth of September, nearly four yearssince."

She waited, after that reply.

Miss Jethro was silent.

"And this," Emily continued, "is the thirtieth of June, eighteenhundred and eighty-one. You can now judge for yourself. Did youknow my father?"

Miss Jethro answered mechanically, using the same words.

"I did know your father."

Emily's feeling of distrust was not set at rest. "I never heardhim speak of you," she said.

In her younger days the teacher must have been a handsome woman.Her grandly-formed features still suggested the idea of imperialbeauty--perhaps Jewish in its origin. When Emily said, "I neverheard him speak of you," the color flew into her pallid cheeks:her dim eyes became alive again with a momentary light. She lefther seat on the bed, and, turning away, mastered the emotion thatshook her.

"How hot the night is!" she said: and sighed, and resumed thesubject with a steady countenance. "I am not surprised that yourfather never mentioned me--to _you_." She spoke quietly, but herface was paler than ever. She sat down again on the bed. "Isthere anything I can do for you," she asked, "before I go away?Oh, I only mean some trifling service that would lay you under noobligation, and would not oblige you to keep up your acquaintancewith me."

Her eyes--the dim black eyes that must once have beenirresistibly beautiful--looked at Emily so sadly that thegenerous girl reproached herself for having doubted her father'sfriend. "Are you thinking of _him_," she said gently, "when youask if you can be of service to me?"

Miss Jethro made no direct reply. "You were fond of your father?"she added, in a whisper. "You told your schoolfellow that yourheart still aches when you speak of him."

"I only told her the truth," Emily answered simply.

Miss Jethro shuddered--on that hot night!--shuddered as if achill had struck her.

Emily held out her hand; the kind feeling that had been roused inher glittered prettily in her eyes. "I am afraid I have not doneyou justice," she said. "Will you forgive me and shake hands?"

Miss Jethro rose, and drew back. "Look at the light!" sheexclaimed.

The candle was all burned out. Emily still offered her hand--andstill Miss Jethro refused to see it.

"There is just light enough left," she said, "to show me my wayto the door. Good-night--and good-by."

Emily caught at her dress, and stopped her. "Why won't you shakehands with me?" she asked.

The wick of the candle fell over in the socket, and left them inthe dark. Emily resolutely held the teacher's dress. With orwithout light, she was still bent on making Miss Jethro explainherself.

They had throughout spoken in guarded tones, fearing to disturbthe sleeping girls. The sudden darkness had its inevitableeffect. Their voices sank to whispers now. "My father's friend,"Emily pleaded, "is surely my friend?"

"Drop the subject."

"Why?"

"You can never be _my_ friend."

"Why not?"

"Let me go!"

Emily's sense of self-respect forbade her to persist any longer."I beg your pardon for having kept you here against your will,"she said--and dropped her hold on the dress.

Miss Jethro instantly yielded on her side. "I am sorry to havebeen obstinate," she answered. "If you do despise me, it is afterall no more than I have deserved." Her hot breath beat on Emily'sface: the unhappy woman must have bent over the bed as she madeher confession. "I am not a fit person for you to associatewith."

"I don't believe it!"

Miss Jethro sighed bitterly. "Young and warm hearted--I was oncelike you!" She controlled that outburst of despair. Her nextwords were spoken in steadier tones. "You _will_ have it--you_shall_ have it!" she said. "Some one (in this house or out ofit; I don't know which) has betrayed me to the mistress of theschool. A wretch in my situation suspects everybody, and worsestill, does it without reason or excuse. I heard you girlstalking when you ought to have been asleep. You all dislike me.How did I know it mightn't be one of you? Absurd, to a personwith a well-balanced mind! I went halfway up the stairs, and feltashamed of myself, and went back to my room. If I could only havegot some rest! Ah, well, it was not to be done. My own vilesuspicions kept me awake; I left my bed again. You know what Iheard on the other side of that door, and why I was interested inhearing it. Your father never told me he had a daughter. 'MissBrown,' at this school, was any 'Miss Brown,' to me. I had noidea of who you really were until to-night. I'm wandering. Whatdoes all this matter to you? Miss Ladd has been merciful; shelets me go without exposing me. You can guess what has happened.No? Not even yet? Is it innocence or kindness that makes you soslow to understand? My dear, I have obtained admission to thisrespectable house by means of false references, and I have beendiscovered. _Now_ you know why you must not be the friend of sucha woman as I am! Once more, good-night--and good-by."

Emily shrank from that miserable farewell.

"Bid me good-night," she said, "but don't bid me good-by. Let mesee you again."

"Never!"

The sound of the softly-closed door was just audible in thedarkness. She had spoken--she had gone--never to be seen by Emilyagain.

Miserable, interesting, unfathomable creature--the problem thatnight of Emily's waking thoughts: the phantom of her dreams."Bad? or good?" she asked herself. "False; for she listened atthe door. True; for she told me the tale of her own disgrace. Afriend of my father; and she never knew that he had a daughter.Refined, accomplished, lady-like; and she stoops to use a falsereference. Who is to reconcile such contradictions as these?"

Dawn looked in at the window--dawn of the memorable day whichwas, for Emily, the beginning of a new life. The years werebefore her; and the years in their course reveal bafflingmysteries of life and death.