"Well, I wouldn't be scared of Aunt Ada, Mary," Molly said. "She is a dear, and she'll be very sorry, but she will know it was not your fault that you lost it."
"Miss Sharp would say it was my carelessness, and she would be so very vexed."
"Then she's a mean old thing, and not a bit like dear Aunt Ada. Do tell her, Mary."
"Oh, I can't, I can't," persisted Mary, terror again seizing her, "I am so afraid she will be vexed."
"Then let me tell."
"Oh, no, please. Wait a little longer. Perhaps the broach can be found. Oh, I am so miserable; Aunt Ada will think I am so careless and deceitful, and everything bad."
Molly now felt only a deep pity for the poor little sinner, and she began to kiss away the tears on Mary's cheeks. "Please don't be miserable," she begged. "I think maybe you ought to have told at first, but I see how you felt, and I'll not be horrid to you any more, Mary. I'll stand up for you straight along, and when you want Aunt Ada to know I will go with you to tell her."
Mary really began to feel comforted. "I think you are a perfect duck, Molly," she said. "Fancy after all I have been doing, for you to be so kind. But please don't tell Polly; I know she doesn't like me."
"She did like you," said Molly truthfully, "until—until we heard that you had not been where Aunt Ada thought you were."
"And she thinks I am deceitful; so I have been, and I hate myself for it."