her veil; and, as he hesitated, she said: "You don't know me! Miss
Vance"; and she threw back her veil, showing her face wan and agitated in
the dark folds. "I am very anxious to see you--to speak with you both.
May I come in?"

"Why, certainly, Miss Vance," he answered, still too much stupefied by
her presence to realize it.

She promptly entered, and saying, with a glance at the hall chair by the
door, "My maid can sit here?" followed him to the room where he had left
his wife.

Mrs. March showed herself more capable of coping with the fact. She
welcomed Miss Vance with the liking they both felt for the girl, and with
the sympathy which her troubled face inspired.

"I won't tire you with excuses for coming, Mrs. March," she said, "for it
was the only thing left for me to do; and I come at my aunt's
suggestion." She added this as if it would help to account for her more
on the conventional plane, and she had the instinctive good taste to
address herself throughout to Mrs. March as much as possible, though what
she had to say was mainly for March. "I don't know how to begin--I don't
know how to speak of this terrible affair. But you know what I mean. I
feel as if I had lived a whole lifetime since it happened. I don't want
you to pity me for it," she said, forestalling a politeness from Mrs.
March. "I'm the last one to be thought of, and you mustn't mind me if I
try to make you. I came to find out all of the truth that I can, and when
I know just what that is I shall know what to do. I have read the
inquest; it's all burned into my brain. But I don't care for that--for
myself: you must let me say such things without minding me. I know that