"Come, child," said the Doctor.
"The keys, Lettice!"
"Just inside my desk—and the desk is not locked," murmured Lettice. "But—" with an effort which brought another rush of colour—"please, please, don't move any of the things that belonged to Sissie."
"Why not?"
Lettice could not have told why. Tears filled her eyes.
"Which box are they in?"
"The big one—underneath another. Please may that wait till I am at home?"
"I'll see—if it is not too heavy."
Which of course it would be, seeing that it was the heaviest. Lettice followed Dr. Bryant slowly, her pleasure marred for at least an hour. The idea of Theodosia turning over and handling with cold critical fingers all those sacred relics of the loved past, was painfully repugnant to Lettice. She almost felt at first as if she must give up the excursion, and stay at home to protect her treasures. The thought of Theodosia's sneering laugh, and careless toss to one side of dresses worn by Sissie, knick-knacks valued by Sissie, books treasured by Sissie, sent a positive shudder through the girl. Many of these things she would naturally have had out in her room for use, but she had always been restrained by the dread of Theodosia's chilling remarks and questions. Theodosia now had stolen a march upon her.
Another recollection had helped to hinder her ready acquiescence. A half-written letter to Felix lay In her desk, speaking of Theodosia in terms which, however true and moderately expressed, and by no means unkind, were not intended for Theodosia's eyes. In searching for the keys Theodosia could hardly fail to come upon the letter. This would have been a matter of indifference, if Lettice could have felt sure that Theodosia was honourably incapable of reading another person's letter: but no such confidence was possible. She knew too well that Theodosia was not honourable. The small wrong of the letter, however, went down and sank into nothing before the real pain of having her cherished treasures at Theodosia's mercy.