A slight dry smile crept into the grim lines round Mr. Trevelyan's mouth.
"Marie, you need not be afraid. That child is trustworthy."
Jean's face changed. Any word of praise was rare in her little life. She hardly knew what to make of it. Mr. Trevelyan, watching still, did not quite know what to make of her. He knew well the Trevelyan half of Jean: but the sensitive loving Ingram half was commonly veiled from his sight: he scarcely recognised its existence. The sudden radiance of response in her eyes, and then the quiver of her lips, surprised him. He did not know what he had said to bring about such results.
Before he could speak, Jean was gone. She felt a rush of tears coming, and fled wildly away to a retired corner of the garden, there to sob her little heart out, not knowing what made her cry.
"Why, Jean!"
Jem's voice startled her to her feet; and tears were checked by a mighty effort. To be found in such a condition was in Jean's opinion a dire disgrace. She stood bolt upright, herself again, though with wet cheeks.
"Please don't tell," she begged.
"Not I! Don't you know me better? What is it all about, little woman?"
No answer came, and he did not press the question, shrewdly suspecting that sharp words from Madame Collier or rough ones from Oswald lay below her distress.
He was not far wrong: though indeed Jean would have found it hard to analyse the different ingredients which went to the making up of that distress. The actual last straw had been the softening touch of her father's unwonted praise; but further back was the aunt's displeasure; and further back still another grief. This was the last afternoon of her short holiday, and Oswald had chosen to spend it away from her.