Miss Benedict opened the gate for them as before, and to their inquiries replied that Cecily seemed a little better. If she noticed the suppressed excitement in their manner, she did not comment upon it, but only led the way to Cecily's room without further words. She was bonneted and veiled as usual. At the door she left them, saying she would not go in.
"Cecily, Cecily!" cried Marcia, immediately; "we have news--such strange news for you!" Cecily was at once all eagerness and animation.
"Oh, tell me, quickly!" she exclaimed, sitting up in the bed. "I feel so much better. I'm going to get up to-day. But how can you have any news--about me?"
"Cecily," said Janet, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "have you been thinking, all this time, that Miss Benedict knew everything about you, and why you came here, and all that?"
"Why, of course!" cried Cecily, opening her eyes wide. "She has never explained it to me, and she's so--_queer_ that I never liked to ask her. But I always thought she _knew_!"
"Well, she doesn't--not a thing, apparently," replied Janet, and then repeated to her all the strange conversation at the gate on the day before.
When she had finished, Cecily sat as if stunned--quiet and rigid and staring out of the window. So much had it appeared to affect her that Janet was suddenly sorry she had said a word about it.
"Then--what does it all mean?" murmured Cecily, at last. "I'm here where I've no right to be. Nobody knows me--or wants me. How did it all happen? Don't I belong to _anybody_?" She looked so bewildered, so frightened, so unhappy, that Janet and Marcia both put their arms about her.
"It's all right, Cecily; it's _sure_ to be all right--in the end. _We_ would love you and want you if nobody else did. And I'm sure Miss Benedict must care for you too. She really acts so. But the question is, how did you ever come to be sent here at all? Didn't your mother ever say anything to you about this place or any of the people over here?"
"No," said Cecily, in a hushed voice. It was evident from her manner that her grief over the loss of her mother was very keen, and she had only once voluntarily referred to it or to anything connected with it.
"My mother never, never mentioned the name of Benedict to me,--I never heard of it before."