So did Luclarion. She had only said it to make time.
"Desire," she said,—she never put the "Miss" on, she had been too familiar all her life with those she was familiar with at all,—"the fact is I've got something to say, and I came up to say it."
She drew near—came close,—and laid her great, honest, faithful hand on the back of Desire Ledwith's chair, put the other behind her own waist, and leaned over her.
"You see, I'm a woman, Desire, and I know. You needn't mind me, I'm an old maid; that's the way I do know. Married folks, even mothers, half the time forget. But old maids never forget. I've had my stumps, and I can see that you've got yourn. But you'd ought to understand; and there's nobody, from one mistake and another, that's going to tell you. It's awful hard; it will be a trouble to you at first,"—and Luclarion's strong voice trembled tenderly with the sympathy that her old maid heart had in it, after, and because of, all those years,—"but Kenneth Kincaid"—
"What!" cried Desire, starting to her feet, with a sudden indignation.
"Is going to be married to Rosamond Holabird," said Luclarion, very gently. "There! you ought to know, and I have told you."
"What makes you suppose that that would be a trouble to me?" blazed Desire. "How do you dare"—
"I didn't dare; but I had to!" sobbed Luclarion, putting her arms right round her.
And then Desire—as she would have done at any rate, for that blaze was the mere flash of her own shame and pain—broke down with a moan.
"All at once! All at once!" she said piteously, and hid her face in Luclarion's bosom.