“It’s the only thing I had,” explained Mary hurriedly. “I meant to give you such a nice thing. I saved my money, and I had enough. You would have liked it so—” She stopped and sobbed a little under her breath.
Jackie said nothing. He was evidently wondering why she had not given him this nice thing. The reason was such a dreadful reason, and it was so hard not to be able to explain it all to him, that Mary could not keep back her tears: she bit her lip, and screwed up her face, but it was useless, they would come, so she leant her forehead against Jackie’s velveteen shoulder, and cried in good earnest, without saying another word. Jackie was both startled and uncomfortable; the tree quite shook with the violence of Mary’s sobs, and her long hair got into his eyes and tickled his face as he sat, screwed up close to her in the narrow perch. He did not mind that, but he was very sorry indeed to see her so unhappy, and could not think how to comfort her. Lately he had seen her cry several times, but never as badly as this. What could be the matter? With some difficulty he tugged out of his pocket a small handkerchief, which by a lucky chance was perfectly clean, and, raising her face a little, dabbed her eyes softly with it.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “I like the shoe awfully—much better than the other thing you were going to give me. Don’t cry.”
But Mary cried on.
“You don’t surely mind what that owl of a Fraulein said, do you?” continued Jackie.
“N–no,” said Mary.
“What are you crying for, then?”
If she could only tell him!
“Is it anything about the Secret?” asked Jackie.
No answer.