” You wont let it get cold, will you? Sleep well.” She kissed me and went out.

I sat on the edge of the bed and, picking up the glass, sipped the milk, which was very hot.

I got into bed, but I was not in the least sleepy. I wished that I had brought something to read, but I had left Pendorric in such a hurry that I had forgotten to do so.

I looked around the room to see if I could find a book; then I noticed the drawer of the hexagonal table. Absently I opened it, and lying inside was a book with a leather cover. I took it out and saw written in a round childish hand on the fly-leaf: ” The diary of Deborah and Barbarina Hyson. This must be the only diary that ever has been written by two people, but of course we are not really two people in the same way that other people are. That is because we are twins. Signed: Deborah Hyson. Barbarina Hyson.”

I looked at those two signatures; they might have been written by the same hand.

So Deborah and Barbarina had kept a diary between them. I was excited by my discovery; then I remembered that I was prying into something private. I shut the book firmly and drank some more milk. But I could not put the diary back into the drawer. Barbarina had written in it.

If I read what she had written I might learn something about her and she had roused my curiosity from the moment I had heard of her; now of course that curiosity was great because I had always felt that Barbarina was in some way connected with the things which were happening to me, and as I sat there in that strange bed it occurred to me that my position was not less dangerous because I had left Pendorric for a temporary respite. When I returned, more attempts might be made on my life.

I remembered that strange singing I had heard in the graveyard before I had been locked in the vault. If it was indeed true that someone was planning to murder me, then that someone was going to make it appear that my death was connected with the legend of Barbarina. And there was no doubting the fact that, if the superstitious people who lived round Pendorric were determined that the death of the Brides of Pendorric was due to some metaphysical law, they would be less likely to report any strange incident they might witness.

And as I held that book in my hand I became convinced that I should be foolish to put aside something which might help me in my need. There might be something in this book, some hint as to how Barbarina had met her death. Had she been in a position similar to mine before that fatal fall? Had she felt, as I was feeling now, that danger was creeping closer and closer, until it eventually caught up with her? If she had felt that, might she not have put it into her diary? But this was her childhood diary; the one she shared with Deborah. There would scarcely be anything in it about her life at Pendorric. But I was determined to see, and I opened the book.

It had probably not been intended for a diary in the first place, for there were no printed dates on the pages; but dates had been written in.

The first was September 6th. No year was given, and the entry read: ” Petroc came to-day. We think he is the best boy we have ever met. He boasts a bit, but then all boys do. We think he likes us because we are asked to his birthday party at Pendorric.”

The next entry was September 12th.

“Carrie is making our new dresses.

She didn’t know which of us was which. She is going to put name tabs on our clothes: Barbarina. Deborah. As if we cared. We always wear each other’s things, we told her. Barbarina’s are Deborah’s and Deborah’s Barbarina’s; but she said we should have our own. ” It seemed just a childish account of their lives here in this house on the moor, of the parties they went to. I had no idea who was writing because the first person singular was never used; it was all in the first person plural. I went on reading until I came to a blank page and thought for a moment that was the end; but a few pages on there was more writing, yet it was not the same. It had matured and I presumed that the diary had been forgotten for some time and taken up again. There was more than a change in the handwriting, for I read:

” August 13th. I was lost on the moor. It was wonderful.” I was excited because now I could say: That was actually written by Barbarina.

Barbarina seemed to have taken on the diary from that point.

” August 16th. Petroc has asked Father and of course Father is delighted. He pretended to be surprised. As if it isn’t what they’ve all wanted for so long! I’m so happy. I’m longing to be at Pendorric.

Then I shall escape from Deborah. Fancy wanting to escape from Deborah who up till now has always seemed a part of me. She is in a way a part of me. That was why she had to feel as I do about Petroc. There were always two of us to go places, to get our selves out of trouble—silly little troubles, of course, which you think are so important when you’re children. But that’s all changed now. I want to get away—away from Deborah. “-I cant stand toe way she looks at me when I’ve been with Petroc—as though she’s trying to read my mind and can’t, like she used to—as though she hates me. Am I beginning to hate her?

” September 1st. Yesterday Father, Deborah and I arrived at Pendorric for a visit. We’re going ahead fast with arrangements for the wedding and I’m so excited. I saw Louisa Sellick to-day while I was out riding with Petroc. I suppose she’s what people would call beautiful. She looks sad. That’s because she knows now she has lost Petroc for ever.

I asked Petroc about her. Perhaps I should have said nothing. But I was never one to stay calm. Deborah was the calm one. Petroc said it was all over. Is it? If it isnt I feel I could kill her. I won’t share Petroc. Sometimes I wish I’d fallen in love with some of the others.

George Fanshawe would have been a good husband and he was very much in love with me. So was Tom Kellerway. But it had to be Petroc. If Tom or George would fall in love with Deborah—Why is it they don’t? We look so much alike that people can’t tell us apart and yet they don’t fall in love with Deborah. It’s the same as it was when we were young. When we were at parties she’d keep in the background. I never did. She always said:

‘ People don’t want me. I get in on your ticket. ” And because she believed it and acted that way, it came to be true. Now Deborah doesn’t know I’m going on with our diary I can write exactly what I feel. It’s such a relief.

” September 3rd. Pendorric! What a wonderful old house. I love it. And Petroc! What is it about him th-‘t’s different from everyone else in the world! Some magic! He’s so gay, but sometimes I’m frightened. He doesn’t seem to be entirely with me.”

I had come to several blank pages in the book, but after that the writing went on.

” July 3rd. I found this old diary to-day. It’s ages since I wrote in it. The last time was just before I married. I see I’ve only put the months and days and left out the years. How like me! Still, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know why I want to write in it again. For comfort, I suppose. Since the twins were born I haven’t thought of it. It’s only now. I woke up last night and he wasn’t there. I thought ‘of that woman, Louisa Sellick. I hate her. There are rumours about her. I suppose he’s still seeing her—and others. Could anyone be all that attractive and not take advantage of it? If I’d wanted a faithful husband I ought not to have married such an attractive man as Petroc.

I notice things. I’ve seen people at parties talking. They brightly change the subject when I come up. I know they’re talking about Petroe and me—and some woman. Louisa Sellick probably. The servants look at me—pityingly. Mrs. Penhalligan for one—even old Jesse. What are they saying? Sometimes I feel I’ll go mad if I let things drift like this.

When I try to talk to Petroc he’ll never be serious. He says, Well, of course I love you. ” And I snap back: And how many others too?” ‘ Mine’s a loving nature. ” he answers. He can never be serious. Life’s so amusing to him. I want to shout at him that it’s not so amusing to me. When I think of the old days in Father’s house I remember how I used to love parties. Everyone made a fuss of me. And Deborah was there—she used to be as pleased as I was with my popularity. Once she said: ” I enjoy it just as though it were mine. ” And I answered ” It is yours. Deb.

Don’t you remember we always used to say that we weren’t two people-but one. ” In those days that satisfied her.”

I had been so excited by what I read that I hadn’t noticed what was happening to myself. I had actually yawned several times during the reading, and my lids now seemed so heavy that I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

If I had been less enthralled I should not have been surprised, but the contents of this diary should surely have kept me wide awake. I was determined to go on reading.

” August 8th. Deborah has been here for the last fortnight. She seems to come more often now. There is a change in Deb. She’s become more alive. She laughs more easily. Something has changed her. Other people may not notice—but then they don’t know her like I do. She borrowed my riding hat the other day—the black one with the band of blue round it. She stood before the looking-glass and said: I don’t believe anyone would know I wasn’t you—not anyone.” And actually she has grown more like me since she became more lively. I know on several occasions the servants called her by my name. It amused her very much. I had an idea that she longed to be in my place. If only she knew. But that’s some thing I wouldn’t tell even her. It’s too humiliating. No, I couldn’t even tell Deborah about all the times when I wake up and find Petroc not with me, how I get up and walk about the room imagining what he’s doing. If she knew what I had to suffer she wouldn’t want to be in my place. She sees Petroc as so many others see him—just about the most fascinating man anyone could meet anywhere. It’s different being his wife. Sometimes I hate him.