Shortly after Miss Ladd had taken her departure, a parcel arrivedfor Emily, bearing the name of a bookseller printed on the label.It was large, and it was heavy. "Reading enough, I should think,to last for a lifetime," Mrs. Ellmother remarked, after carryingthe parcel upstairs.

Emily called her back as she was leaving the room. "I want tocaution you," she said, "before Miss Wyvil comes. Don't tellher--don't tell anybody--how my father met his death. If otherpersons are taken into our confidence, they will talk of it. Wedon't know how near to us the murderer may be. The slightest hintmay put him on his guard."

"Oh, miss, are you still thinking of that!"

"I think of nothing else."

"Bad for your mind, Miss Emily--and bad for your body, as yourlooks show. I wish you would take counsel with some discreetperson, before you move in this matter by yourself."

Emily sighed wearily. "In my situation, where is the person whomI can trust?"

"You can trust the good doctor."

"Can I? Perhaps I was wrong when I told you I wouldn't see him.He might be of some use to me."

Mrs. Ellmother made the most of this concession, in the fear thatEmily might change her mind. "Doctor Allday may call on youtomorrow," she said.

"Do you mean that you have sent for him?"

"Don't be angry! I did it for the best--and Mr. Mirabel agreedwith me."

"Mr. Mirabel! What have you told Mr. Mirabel?"

"Nothing, except that you are ill. When he heard that, heproposed to go for the doctor. He will be here again to-morrow,to ask for news of your health. Will you see him?"

"I don't know yet--I have other things to think of. Bring MissWyvil up here when she comes."

"Am I to get the spare room ready for her?"

"No. She is staying with her father at the London house."

Emily made that reply almost with an air of relief. When Ceciliaarrived, it was only by an effort that she could show gratefulappreciation of the sympathy of her dearest friend. When thevisit came to an end, she felt an ungrateful sense of freedom:the restraint was off her mind; she could think again of the oneterrible subject that had any interest for her now. Over love,over friendship, over the natural enjoyment of her young life,predominated the blighting resolution which bound her to avengeher father's death. Her dearest remembrances of him--tenderremembrances once--now burned in her (to use her own words) likefire. It was no ordinary love that had bound parent and childtogether in the bygone time. Emily had grown from infancy togirlhood, owing all the brightness of her life--a life without amother, without brothers, without sisters--to her father alone.To submit to lose this beloved, this only companion, by the cruelstroke of disease was of all trials of resignation the hardest tobear. But to be severed from him by the murderous hand of a man,was more than Emily's fervent nature could passively endure.Before the garden gate had closed on her friend she had returnedto her one thought, she was breathing again her one aspiration.The books that she had ordered, with her own purpose inview--books that might supply her want of experience, and mightreveal the perils which beset the course that lay beforeher--were unpacked and spread out on the table. Hour after hour,when the old servant believed that her mistress was in bed, shewas absorbed over biographies in English and French, whichrelated the stratagems by means of which famous policemen hadcaptured the worst criminals of their time. From these, sheturned to works of fiction, which found their chief topic ofinterest in dwelling on the discovery of hidden crime. The nightpassed, and dawn glimmered through the window--and still sheopened book after book with sinking courage--and still she gainednothing but the disheartening conviction of her inability tocarry out her own plans. Almost every page that she turned overrevealed the immovable obstacles set in her way by her sex andher age. Could _she_ mix with the people, or visit the scenes,familiar to the experience of men (in fact and in fiction), whohad traced the homicide to his hiding-place, and had marked himamong his harmless fellow-creatures with the brand of Cain? No! Ayoung girl following, or attempting to follow, that career, mustreckon with insult and outrage--paying their abominable tributeto her youth and her beauty, at every turn. What proportion wouldthe men who might respect her bear to the men who might make herthe object of advances, which it was hardly possible to imaginewithout shuddering. She crept exhausted to her bed, the mosthelpless, hopeless creature on the wide surface of the earth--agirl self-devoted to the task of a man.

Careful to perform his promise to Mirabel, without delay, thedoctor called on Emily early in the morning--before the hour atwhich he usually entered his consulting-room.

"Well? What's the matter with the pretty young mistress?" heasked, in his most abrupt manner, when Mrs. Ellmother opened thedoor. "Is it love? or jealousy? or a new dress with a wrinkle init?"

"You will hear about it, sir, from Miss Emily herself. I amforbidden to say anything."

"But you mean to say something--for all that?"

"Don't joke, Doctor Allday! The state of things here is a greatdeal too serious for joking. Make up your mind to be surprised--Isay no more."

Before the doctor could ask what this meant, Emily opened theparlor door. "Come in!" she said, impatiently.

Doctor Allday's first greeting was strictly professional. "Mydear child, I never expected this," he began. "You are lookingwretchedly ill." He attempted to feel her pulse. She drew herhand away from him.

"It's my mind that's ill," she answered. "Feeling my pulse won'tcure me of anxiety and distress. I want advice; I want help. Dearold doctor, you have always been a good friend to me--be a betterfriend than ever now."

"What can I do?"

"Promise you will keep secret what I am going to say to you--andlisten, pray listen patiently, till I have done."

Doctor Allday promised, and listened. He had been, in some degreeat least, prepared for a surprise--but the disclosure which nowburst on him was more than his equanimity could sustain. Helooked at Emily in silent dismay. She had surprised and shockedhim, not only by what she said, but by what she unconsciouslysuggested. Was it possible that Mirabel's personal appearance hadproduced on her the same impression which was present in his ownmind? His first impulse, when he was composed enough to speak,urged him to put the question cautiously.

"If you happened to meet with the suspected man," he said, "haveyou any means of identifying him?"

"None whatever, doctor. If you would only think it over--"

He stopped her there; convinced of the danger of encouraging her,and resolved to act on his conviction.

"I have enough to occupy me in my profession," he said. "Ask yourother friend to think it over."

"What other friend?"

"Mr. Alban Morris."

The moment he pronounced the name, he saw that he had touched onsome painful association. "Has Mr. Morris refused to help you?"he inquired.

"I have not asked him to help me."

"Why?"

There was no choice (with such a manas Doctor Allday) between offending him or answering him. Emilyadopted the last alternative. On this occasion she had no reasonto complain of his silence.

"Your view of Mr. Morris's conduct surprises me," hereplied--"surprises me more than I can say," he added;remembering that he too was guilty of having kept her inignorance of the truth, out of regard--mistaken regard, as it nowseemed to be--for her peace of mind.

"Be good to me, and pass it over if I am wrong," Emily said: "Ican't dispute with you; I can only tell you what I feel. You havealways been so kind to me--may I count on your kindness still?"

Doctor Allday relapsed into silence.

"May I at least ask," she went on, "if you know anything ofpersons--" She paused, discouraged by the cold expression ofinquiry in the old man's eyes as he looked at her.

"What persons?" he said.

"Persons whom I suspect."

"Name them."

Emily named the landlady of the inn at Zeeland: she could nowplace the right interpretation on Mrs. Rook's conduct, when thelocket had been put into her hand at Netherwoods. Doctor Alldayanswered shortly and stiffly: he had never even seen Mrs. Rook.Emily mentioned Miss Jethro next--and saw at once that she hadinterested him.

"What do you suspect Miss Jethro of doing?" he asked.

"I suspect her of knowing more of my father's death than she iswilling to acknowledge," Emily replied.

The doctor's manner altered for the better. "I agree with you,"he said frankly. "But I have some knowledge of that lady. I warnyou not to waste time and trouble in trying to discover the weakside of Miss Jethro."

"That was not my experience of her at school," Emily rejoined."At the same time I don't know what may have happened since thosedays. I may perhaps have lost the place I once held in herregard."

"How?"

"Through my aunt."

"Through your aunt?"

"I hope and trust I am wrong," Emily continued; "but I fear myaunt had something to do with Miss Jethro's dismissal from theschool--and in that case Miss Jethro may have found it out." Hereyes, resting on the doctor, suddenly brightened. "You knowsomething about it!" she exclaimed.

He considered a little--whether he should or should not tell herof the letter addressed by Miss Ladd to Miss Letitia, which hehad found at the cottage.

"If I could satisfy you that your fears are well founded," heasked, "would the discovery keep you away from Miss Jethro?"

"I should be ashamed to speak to her--even if we met."

"Very well. I can tell you positively, that your aunt was theperson who turned Miss Jethro out of the school. When I get home,I will send you a letter that proves it."

Emily's head sank on her breast. "Why do I only hear of thisnow?" she said.

"Because I had no reason for letting you know of it, beforeto-day. If I have done nothing else, I have at least succeeded inkeeping you and Miss Jethro apart."

Emily looked at him in alarm. He went on without appearing tonotice that he had startled her. "I wish to God I could as easilyput a stop to the mad project which you are contemplating."

"The mad project?" Emily repeated. "Oh, Doctor Allday. Do youcruelly leave me to myself, at the time of all others, when I ammost in need of your sympathy?"

That appeal moved him. He spoke more gently; he pitied, while hecondemned her.

"My poor dear child, I should be cruel indeed, if I encouragedyou. You are giving yourself up to an enterprise, so shockinglyunsuited to a young girl like you, that I declare I contemplateit with horror. Think, I entreat you, think; and let me hear thatyou have yielded--not to my poor entreaties--but to your ownbetter sense!" His voice faltered; his eyes moistened. "I shallmake a fool of myself," he burst out furiously, "if I stay hereany longer. Good-by."

He left her.

She walked to the window, and looked out at the fair morning. Noone to feel for her--no one to understand her--nothing nearerthat could speak to poor mortality of hope and encouragement thanthe bright heaven, so far away! She turned from the window. "Thesun shines on the murderer," she thought, "as it shines on me."

She sat down at the table, and tried to quiet her mind; to thinksteadily to some good purpose. Of the few friends that shepossessed, every one had declared that she was in the wrong. Had_they_ lost the one loved being of all beings on earth, and losthim by the hand of a homicide--and that homicide free? All thatwas faithful, all that was devoted in the girl's nature, held herto her desperate resolution as with a hand of iron. If she shrankat that miserable moment, it was not from her design--it was fromthe sense of her own helplessness. "Oh, if I had been a man!" shesaid to herself. "Oh, if I could find a friend!"