get luncheon as usual," she said. "You will be wanting your luncheon."
She came towards him with rising hands. "You can not imagine," she said. "That poor child!"
"You must tell me," said Melville.
"I simply do not know what to do. I don't know where to turn." She came nearer to him. She protested. "All that I did, Mr. Melville, I did for the best. I saw there was trouble. I could see that I had been deceived, and I stood it as long as I could. I had to speak at last."
My cousin by leading questions and interrogative silences developed her story a little.
"And every one," she said, "blames me. Every one."
"Everybody blames everybody who does anything, in affairs of this sort," said Melville. "You mustn't mind that."
"I'll try not to," she said bravely. "You know, Mr. Melville———"
He laid his hand on her shoulder for a moment. "Yes," he said very impressively, and I think Mrs. Bunting felt better.
"We all look to you," she said. "I don't know what I should do without you."
"That's it," said Melville. "How do things stand? What am I to do?"
"Go to him," said Mrs. Bunting, "and put it all right."
"But suppose—" began Melville doubtfully.
"Go to her. Make her see what it would mean for him and all of us."
He tried to get more definite instructions. "Don't
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