myself for a moment the strength and suggestiveness of her
half-spoken argument.

Not that for a second I believed it true. I could never believe it.
Aunt Emma, so gentle, so kindly, so sweet: incapable of hurting any
living thing: the tenderest old lady that breathed upon earth: and
my own mother's sister, whom I loved as I never before loved anyone!
Aunt Emma the murderess! The bare idea was preposterous! I couldn't
entertain it. My whole nature revolted from it.

And indeed, how very slight, after all, was the mere scrap of
evidence on which Jane ventured to suggest so terrible a charge! A
man--in man's clothes--fairly tall and slim, and apparently dark-
haired, but stooping so much that he looked almost hump-backed: how
different from Aunt Emma, with her womanly figure, and her upright
gait, and her sweet old white head! Why, it was clearly ridiculous.

And yet, the fact remained that as Jane pointed to the Picture and
asked, "Whose hand is that?" the answer came up all spontaneously to
my lips, without hesitation, "Aunt Emma's!"

I sat there long in my misery, thinking it over to myself. I didn't
know what to do. I couldn't go and confide to Aunt Emma's ear this
new and horrible doubt,--which was no doubt after all, for I KNEW it
was impossible. I hated Jane for suggesting it; I hated her for
telling me. Yet I couldn't be left alone. I was far too terrified.

"Oh, Jane;" I cried, looking up to her, and yet despising myself for
saying it, "you must stop here to-night and sleep with me. If I'm
left by myself in the room alone, I know I shall go mad--I can feel