Mrs. Holmes was puzzled, but discreetly managed the subject without showing her ignorance. But when Mellicent was summoned to her mother’s room, a half-hour later, the grave face that met her told that something was wrong.
“Have you nothing to tell me, daughter,” began Mrs. Holmes, “which you should have told me before this?”
Mellicent burst into tears. “Oh, mamma, I have been so miserable. I wanted to tell, but I promised—I promised not to. It was a secret, and you know you have so often told us it was dishonorable to tell a secret.”
Mrs. Holmes drew the weeping child gently to her. “My dearie, are you sure it was a secret you should have kept? I think it would have been better if you had gone to the person who shared the secret with you, saying to him, I must tell my mother. Your conscience, my darling, has been overstrained, and your judgment at fault. I know that you and Porter were at a matinée not long ago. Mrs. Ward saw you there.”
Mellicent’s tears fell afresh.
“Now, you see, dear,” continued Mrs. Holmes, “I know all about it; tell me how it happened.”
“I wanted to go so much,” sobbed Mellicent, “and Porter said if—if I would loan him some money he would take me. It was a very exciting play, and I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go if I asked.”
“No, I should very likely have refused. How did you find out about the play?”
Poor Mellicent felt herself deeper and deeper in the mire. “I read the book it was taken from,” she confessed. “Oh, mamma, I see now how wrong I was.”
“I thought I could trust my girls,” said Mrs. Holmes, sadly. “You know, my child, you are too young to exercise a right judgment in the matter of selecting books or plays.”