And now the funeral was over, and she was going home that very
afternoon--to the gloomy house among the rocks, where she had grown old,
and her hair gray long before her time--going back to the burden which
pressed so heavily upon her, and from which she shrank as she had never
done before. Not that she wished to stay in that grand house, where she
was so sadly out of place, but she wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, so
that she escaped from the one spot so horrible to her. She was thinking
of all this and standing with her face to the window, when her brother
entered the room and began, abruptly:

"I say, Hannah, I want to ask you something. Just before Aunt Wetherby
died, she had a long talk with me on various matters, and among other
things she said she believed there was something troubling you and
father, some secret you were hiding from me and the world. Is it so? Do
you know anything which I do not?"

"Yes, many things."

The voice which gave this reply was not like Hannah's voice, but was
hard and sharp, and sounded as if a great ways off, and Burton could see
how violently his sister was agitated, even though she stood with her
back to him. Suddenly he remembered that his aunt had also said: "If
there is a secret, never seek to discover it, lest it should bring
disgrace." And here he was, trying to find it out almost before she was
cold. A great fear took possession of Burton then, for he was the
veriest moral coward in the world, and before Hannah could say another
word, he continued:

"Yes, Aunt Wetherby was right. There is something; there has always been
something; but don't tell me, please, I'd rather not know."