"What did you do in the garden?"
"I threw myself on your neck and I sobbed—I behaved like a maniac."
"Is that all you mean?"
"It's what I don't want mamma to know—it's what I beseech you to keep silent about. If you don't, I'll never, never go home. Have mercy on me!" the poor child quavered.
"Dear girl, I only want to be tender to you—to be perfect. But tell me first, has any one acted wrongly to you?"
"No one—no one. I speak the truth."
She looked into my eyes, and I looked far into hers. They were wild with pain, and yet they were so pure that they made me confusedly believe her. I hesitated a moment; then I risked the question: "Isn't Mr. Brandon responsible for anything?"
"For nothing—for nothing! Don't blame him!" the girl passionately cried.
"He hasn't made love to you!"
"Not a word—before God! Oh, it was too awful!" And with this she broke away from me, flung herself on her knees before a sofa, burying her face in it and in her arms.
