“Of course it’s awful, but I don’t see the use of making it worse than it need be.  He’ll feel it a great deal more if he sees me, and so shall I.”

“And what shall I feel?” Miriam spoke unguardedly, but Evie was too preoccupied to notice the bitterness of the tone.

“I don’t see why you should feel anything at all.  It’s nothing to you—­or very little.  It wouldn’t be your fault; not any more than it’s the postman’s if he has to bring you a letter with bad news.”

Miriam went back to her place on the edge of the couch, where with her forehead bowed for a minute on her hand she sat reflecting.  An overwhelming desire for confidence, for sympathy perhaps, for the clearing up of mysteries in any case, was impelling her to tell Evie all that had ever happened between Ford and herself.  It had been necessary to maintain so many reserves that possibly this new light would enable Evie to see her own duty more straightforwardly.

“Darling,” she began, “I want to tell you something—­”

But before she could proceed Evie flung the hair-brush on the floor and uttered a great swelling sob.  With her hands hanging at her sidess and her golden head thrown back, she wept with the abandonment of a child, while suggesting the seraphic suffering of a grieving angel by some old master.

In an instant Miriam had her in her arms.  It was the appeal she had never been able to resist.

“There, there, my pet,” she said, soothingly, drawing her to the couch.  “Come to Miriam, who loves you.  There, there.”

Evie clung to her piteously, with flower-like face tilted outward and upward for the greater convenience of weeping.

“Oh, I’m so lonely!” she sobbed.  “I’m so lonely ...  I I wish dear mamma ... hadn’t died.”

Miriam pressed her the more closely.

“I’m so lonely ... and everything’s so strange ... and I don’t know what to do ... and he’s going to be put in jail ... and you’re so unkind to me....  Oh, dear! ...  I can’t tell him ...  I can’t tell him ...  I can’t ...  I can’t ...”

She pillowed her head on Miriam’s shoulder, like a child that would force a caress from the hand that has just been striking it.  The action filled Miriam with that kind of self-reproach which the weak creature inspires so easily in the strong.  In spite of her knowledge to the contrary, she had the feeling of having acted selfishly.

“No, darling,” she said, at last, as Evie’s sobs subdued into convulsive tremblings, “you needn’t tell him.  I’ll see him.  He’ll understand how hard it’s been for you.  It’s been hard for every one—­and especially for you, darling.  I’ll do my best.  You know I will.  And I’m sure he’ll understand.  There, there,” she comforted, as Evie’s tears broke out afresh.  “Have your cry out, dear.  It will do you good.  There, there.”

* * * * *

So Evie went back next day to Lenox, while Miriam waited for Ford.