I intended to finish the history of Bolivar County before I left.  I dislike not finishing a book.  Besides, this one fascinated me —­the smug complacence and almost loud virtue of the author, his satisfaction in Bolivar County, and his small hits at the world outside, his patronage to those not of it.  And always, when I began to read, I turned to the inscription in Miss Emily’s hand, the hand of the confession—­and I wondered if she had really believed it all.

So on this day I found the name Bullard in the book.  It had belonged to the Reverend Samuel Thaddeus’s grandmother, and he distinctly stated that she was the last of her line.  He inferred, indeed, that since the line was to end, it had chosen a fitting finish in his immediate progenitor.

That night, at dinner, I said, “Anne, are there any Bullards in this neighborhood now?”

“I have never heard of any.  But I have not been here long.”

“It is not a common name,” I persisted.

But she received my statement in silence.  She had, as I have said, rather a gift for silence.

That afternoon I was wandering about the garden snipping faded roses with Miss Emily’s garden shears, when I saw Maggie coming swiftly toward me.  When she caught my eye, she beckoned to me.  “Walk quiet, Miss Agnes,” she said, “and don’t say I didn’t warn you.  She’s in the library.”

So, feeling hatefully like a spy, I went quietly over the lawn toward the library windows.  They were long ones, to the floor, and at first I made out nothing.  Then I saw Anne.  She was on her knees, following the border of the carpet with fingers that examined it, inch by inch.

She turned, as if she felt our eyes on her, and saw us.  I shall never forget her face.  She looked stricken.  I turned away.  There was something in her eyes that made me think of Miss Emily, lying among her pillows and waiting for me to say the thing she was dreading to hear.

I sent Maggie away with a gesture.  There was something in her pursed lips that threatened danger.  For I felt then as if I had always known it and only just realized I knew it, that somewhere in that room lay the answer to all questions; lay Miss Emily’s secret.  And I did not wish to learn it.  It was better to go on wondering, to question and doubt and decide and decide again.  I was, I think, in a state of nervous terror by that time, terror and apprehension.

While Miss Emily lived, I had hoped to help.  But now it seemed too hatefully like accusing when she could not defend herself.  And there is another element that I am bound to acknowledge.  There was an element of jealousy of Anne Bullard.  Both of us had tried to help Miss Emily.  She had foiled my attempt in her own endeavor, a mistaken endeavor, I felt.  But there was now to be no blemish on my efforts.  I would no longer pry or question or watch.  It was too late.

In a curious fashion, each of us wished, I think, to prove the quality of her tenderness for the little old lady who was gone beyond all human tenderness.