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 me go. I think I was mad then, and I know I am now. Tell every one. I don’t care.”

But Milly threw her arms round her again. The love interest had overpowered the moral sense. What did the silly story, or the theft, or the lie matter—what were they, compared with the love-secret she had surprised?

“My darling Jane,” she said, holding her friend closely and still weeping lavishly, “don’t worry about the story: I quite understand. Let’s forget it. You’ve got quite enough trouble to bear without that. But there’s one thing, it’s just as well I found out before the story was published. Because Edgar isn’t dead. His ship has been towed in: he’s at home.”

Jane laughed.

“Don’t cry, dear,” said Milly; “I’ll help you to bear it. Only—oh dear, how awful it is for you!—he’s going to be married.”

Jane laughed again; and then she thinks the great, green waves really did rise up all round the quaint dining-room—rise mountains high, and, falling, cover her.

Jane was ill so long that Milly had to tell Edgar about the story after all, and they sent it in, and it was published in Jane’s name.