Nor could they watch her in the silence of the
night tossing on her bed, or closeted with Martha
in her search for the initial steps that had led to this
horror. Had the Philadelphia school undermined
her own sisterly teachings or had her companions
been at fault? Perhaps it was due to the blood of
some long-forgotten ancestor, which in the cycle of
years had cropped out in this generation, poisoning
the fountain of her youth. Bart, she realized, had
played the villain and the ingrate, but yet it was also
true that Bart, and all his class, would have been
powerless before a woman of a different temperament.
Who, then, had undermined this citadel and
given it over to plunder and disgrace? Then with
merciless exactness she searched her own heart. Had
it been her fault? What safeguard had she herself
neglected? Wherein had she been false to her trust
and her promise to her dying father? What could
she have done to avert it? These ever-haunting, ever-
recurring doubts maddened her.

One thing she was determined upon, cost what it
might--to protect her sister's name. No daughter
of Morton Cobden's should be pointed at in scorn.
For generations no stain of dishonor had tarnished
the family name. This must be preserved, no matter
who suffered. In this she was sustained by Martha,
her only confidante.

Doctor John heard the news from Jane's lips before