was, perhaps I might.

One night I could bear it no longer. I am aware that I must seem a most
prying old woman; but somehow or other this library was fated to be
mixed up with my life. I rose and just peeped round the library door to
see what she was doing. She was standing in the clear moonlight--not, as
I had expected, with an open photograph album, but holding a little
miniature, taken from its place on the table. I went back to bed, my
heart bounding. I knew now! I did not sleep much that night.

Perhaps I acted rashly--but I thought I should apply to Paul for help. I
was sure, from various signs, that he did not hate my Janet's bairn now.
I told him of these stolen visits to the library, and tried to persuade
him to conceal himself and watch there--for the purpose of finding out
whose the portrait was. I did not tell him, deceitful woman that I was,
that I myself already knew. Old people like him and me, I said, should
help the child out of her trouble. I must have startled him terribly: he
grew, at first, so white. Then he looked at me long and intently; and
by-and-by began to cross-examine me. We were canny Scots, both of us,
and fenced.

"You say it was a photograph you saw her with?"

"I did not say I saw her."

"You have heard her open an album?"

"I have heard her move books."

I have seen the time when I could have broken a lance with the best; but