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She makes various attempts at thinking it out. She places her pretty hands upon her prettier brows, under the mistaken impression common to most people that this attitude is conducive to the solution of mysteries; but with no result. Things will not arrange themselves. "Yes, it was I," she says. "And why shouldn't I? Is it to see you drown I would? I—I didn't want you to find out; but"—quickly—"I would do the same for any one at any time. You know that." "I felt nothing, nothing, but the one thing that I was powerless to help you," says Mona, passionately; "that was bitter.".
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"Yes, that is true," he says, in a curious tone, in answer to her words, his eyes fixed moodily upon the ground. Then suddenly he lifts his head, and as his gaze meets hers some of the truth and sweetness that belong to her springs from her to him and restores him once again to his proper self. A very faint smile crosses Sir Nicholas's lips. She is sitting before a spinning-wheel, and is deftly drawing the wool through her fingers; brown little fingers they are, but none the less dear in his sight. Mona, turning, confronts the frightened group in the corner, both men and women, with a face changed and aged by grief and indignation..
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