I did not wish to hear the words. Nor did I wish to say them. The gap was so wide between us—all I could think to do was stop it up with my mouth. I whirled round instead and pressed my lips against his. There came a little moan of surprise from him and his hands fluttered down to my waist. Then, more assured, he drew me in against him and kissed me now, thoughtfully and long, as though committing my lips to memory. I stood still and closed my eyes as we kissed, and into the depth of his embrace I fell, and for a long delicious minute, we might have been kissing or dancing, dancing as I had once on a time with Mr. Hunnowell, my breath exhaling wild and free.

I descended to breakfast the following morning in a curious condition. It is good Jonathan must be gone for a time on business, I thought. For the kiss had been a kiss, yet not. The grave was a grave, and yet my sister or my brother. My papa was my father, and yet not. And I had nearly sealed my fate last night, though I had not spoken aloud.

Yet the joy upon Mr. Lanman’s face betokened a sweet certainty. And Mama’s expectant smile as I entered the breakfast room was that of a child on the verge of having a secret shared. I took my seat across the table from hers and wondered what I should say.

“Mr. Lanman forgot his hat last night,” Mama began. “I found it upon the settee in the hall.”

“Oh,” said I noncommittally.

“I noticed it needs a little brushup,” she continued, “and so I’ve had it sent down to Mr. Martin’s.”

“Mama,” I said, and then stopped.

“Yes, Maisie?” She was delighted.

The postman’s bell rang and then our own bell sounded in the front hall. I quieted, trying to think of how to represent to Mama what had transpired.

“Yes, Maisie?” she repeated.

But Jessie appeared in the doorway just then. And I looked up to see she carried a thick package wrapped in the familiar dark green oilcloth, and I sprang to take it. But before I could reach her, she had put it on the table directly in front of Mama. I stood stock-still in a panic of confusion. Why had Miss Grange sent Mama a copy of her diary, as well?

“Whatever is this?” Mama asked. And before I could reply, she had taken it up in her hands and had begun to unwrap it.

“Mama.” I nearly leapt toward her, but she had torn the protective paper from the bundle of pages inside.

“Oh,” she said abruptly. “They are from Grange House.”

“Yes,” I said, bewildered, looking down upon what seemed to be a stack of black-bordered letters.

She swept the broken packet to her chest, then she looked up at me and said, “Leave me, Maisie.”

“Mama?”