"Yes, and I told him that it need not be so. But he would not listen."
"And you are sure father will come?"
"I am sure. In a week or two he will be here."
Lady Anstruthers' lips shook, her eyes lifted themselves to Betty's in
a touchingly distressed appeal. Had her momentary courage fled beyond
recall? If so, that would be the worst coming to the worst, indeed.
Yet it was not ordinary fear which expressed itself in her face, but a
deeper piteousness, a sudden hopeless pain, baffling because it seemed
a new emotion, or perhaps the upheaval of an old one long and carefully
hidden.
"You will be brave?" Betty appealed to her. "You will not give way,
Rosy?"
"Yes, I must be brave--I am not ill now. I must not fail you--I won't,
Betty, but----"
She slipped upon the floor and dropped her face upon the girl's knee,
sobbing.
Betty bent over her, putting her arms round the heaving shoulders,
and pleading with her to speak. Was there something more to be told,
something she did not know?
"Yes, yes. Oh, I ought to have told you long ago--but I have always been
afraid and ashamed. It has made everything so much worse. I was afraid
you would not understand and would think me wicked--wicked.
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