The little teacher's withered cheek flushed and her bright little eyes clouded. By the way one of her hands fluttered over her heart, too, Ruth knew that Miss Picolet was easily frightened.
"A letter for me?" she whispered.
Ruth was unbuttoning her coat and frock to get at the letter. She said:
"There was an orchestra on that boat that was frozen into the ice, Miss Picolet. One of the musicians spoke to me. He knew you—or said he did——"
The girl hated to go on, Miss Picolet turned so pale and looked so frightened. But it had to be done, and Ruth pursued her story:
"I had seen the man before—the day we came to school here, Helen and I. He played the harp on the Lanawaxa."
"Ah!" gasped the French woman, holding out her hand. "No more, my dear! I understand. Let me have it."
But now Ruth hesitated and stammered, and felt in the bosom of her dress with growing fear. She looked at Miss Picolet, her own face paling.
"Oh, Miss Picolet!" she suddenly burst out. "What will you think? What can I say?"
"What—what is the matter?" gasped the French teacher.