E. Nesbit

“ And I’d never have told you the truth as long as you didn’t believe me—never—never. But now you do believe me I won’t lie to you. There! Let 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. ”

“ When Mrs Beale came into the sitting-room next morning, a neat pile of manuscript lay on the table, and when she took a cup of tea to Jane’s bedside, Jane was sleeping so placidly that the old woman had not the heart to disturb her, and set the tea down on a chair by the pillow to turn white and cold.
When Jane came into the sitting-room, she stood long looking at the manuscript. At last she picked it up, and, still standing, read it through. When she had finished, she stood a long time with it in her hand. At last she shrugged her shoulders and sat down. She wrote to Milly. ”

“ Milly said; “and it really is a good place for work. Poor Edgar did a lot of work there last year. There’s a cabinet with a secret drawer that he said inspired him with mysterious tales, and—— There’s my ’bus.”
“Why do you say poor Edgar?” Jane asked, smiling lightly.
“Oh, hadn’t you heard? Awfully sad thing. He sailed from New York a fortnight ago. No news of the ship. His mother’s in mourning. I saw her yesterday. Quite broken down. Good-bye. Do take care of yourself, and get well and jolly.” ”