She obeyed again; and the steadfast gaze led to an inward remark on the part of Dr. Bryant, "I never saw guilt more like innocence." Aloud he said, "The tea has done your head good."
"Yes, thank you."
"What has happened this afternoon?"
She demurred painfully what to say. "I was—worried," came at length.
"About leaving home? . . . Is that it? . . . The prospect of going with this cloud upon you?"
She could truly answer, "Yes;" though after the "Yes," was a qualifying "Partly."
"One course lies open to you still—the course of frank confession. Nothing can undo what has been done; but next to the undoing of evil comes the confession of it . . . Have you no wish for my forgiveness, Lettice?"
There was a pause of some seconds before she answered, "If I had done what you think, uncle, I should wish to be forgiven."
"Still obstinate!" And the Doctor sighed.
Lettice lifted one of his hands, and pressed it to her lips. He drew it away.