"My dear, how do you come to have that?" asked Mr. Laurence. "I thought the case was locked."
"It wasn't properly locked," said she, in a shaky voice. "Ask the museum-boy, please."
But I came a step forward, and said I'd ever so much rather Miss Adela should tell.
Miss Adela burst into tears, and said she couldn't—her hand hurt her so much; and indeed the silk handkerchief was showing red even then. So Nurse was sent for in a hurry, and Mrs. Crane came too, and the hand was bathed and seen after, and bound up afresh; and Miss Adela looked very pale and pitiful. Then Nurse asked how it had happened, and Mr. Laurence said gravely, "We don't know yet."
"Some mischief of that boy," I heard Crane mutter. "I told you, Nurse, she oughtn't to be left alone with him so long."
"Miles, have you been to blame?" Mr. Laurence asked; and I saw he was worried.
"No, sir; I don't think so," I said. "I tried to do for the best."
"He's sure to say that," Mrs. Crane put in. "If he wasn't to blame, how ever could the poor little lamb get hurt like this?"
And then, to my surprise, Miss Adela herself spoke up bravely.
"The museum-boy isn't to blame," she said. "He's a brave boy, and he's like that soldier in the story, and I was naughty, and I wanted the catseye, and so he locked the door; and when I was asleep he got it away from me. And then I was angry, and I put my hand through the glass to get it again. And that's how I'm hurt, and it's every bit my fault."