I was so taken aback with the question, I sat and stared at Mary. For it was about the last thing in the world I looked for, that she should offer to take a message from me to her brother.
"Am I to say—nothing?" she asked.
It rushed over me then how I'd been longing all the morning to let him know that I had kept my promise. And I never waited to think if that was the sort of message Mary had in her mind.
"Yes, please," I said, trembling. "Please tell Mr. Russell it wasn't my fault."
I don't think I shall soon forget the astonished look that came over Mary's face. She had got something she didn't expect; that was clear.
"What wasn't your fault?" said she.
"About—about its getting known," I whispered, twisting a corner of the tablecloth into a little rope, and dreadfully afraid mother would come back before I could explain. "I'm afraid he'll think it was me, and indeed it wasn't. I never let out a word."
"Is that all you care for, Kitty?" said she, in a sad tone.
"No," I said, and I found it hard to speak. "No, I do care, and I am sorry. It's been wrong, I know. Only—I can't bear him to think—"
"Walter's thinking either way is worth very little, poor weak boy that he is," said she. "Kitty, have you never thought how all this has been in the sight of God?"