"There's something you've got to tell somebody, eh?"
"No, father," I said, all in a shake.
"Nothing at all?" says he. "Are you sure, Kitty—quite sure?"
Father reached across the table to pat my hand, and he spoke in his kindest tone, sorrowful, but not angry.
"No, father," I said.
"Nothing you're hiding from us, Kitty?"
I suppose it was easier to cry than to speak, and so T burst out sobbing again. But father didn't pay so much heed to the tears as he commonly did, for he was intent on what he had to say.
"Kitty, are you hiding something from mother and me?" says he. "Don't cry, but look me in the face, and tell me! Kitty—" and his voice wasn't steady— "Kitty, if you'll just look me in the face, and speak out, and tell me you're hiding nothing, I'll believe you. I'd believe your word if things was ever so against you. Only look me straight in the face, and speak out firm and strong."
But I couldn't do that. For all the lies I had told, I couldn't look him in the face and tell another. I just sat and sobbed.
"Then there is something," says he to himself.