“I did not believe her. I knew something was wrong, but I feared if aunt Marion suspected anything it might delay us longer—and it seemed to me then that I could not bear to be kept ten minutes longer. I was in a fever of impatience already.
“‘Go, get your bonnet, I’ll tell Auntie,’ I cried hastily, and Cora, with a look of relief, gave me the pitcher and ran up stairs. I carried it into the dining-room, and gave it to Auntie. ‘Cora could not get any, Auntie,’ I said, and I was conscious of looking guilty, so that I dared not raise my eyes.
“‘Oh, I’m so sorry. But you have been good to wait so long—now you must go—good-bye,’ said kind Auntie, and so she began to search through the spice-box with a puzzled expression on her face. I escaped for fear of being sent upon a search for something. Had I told a lie? That fearful thought flashed through my soul like lightning as I shut the door, and I stopped with a loudly beating heart. How fearful it seemed! How all the beautiful, glad day had changed!
“I half turned back. Like a flash, clear as noon-day, it looked to me then—that Cora had done some wrong, and that I for fear of losing my pleasure was helping her to deceive. Those words burnt themselves into my heart. I put my hand on the door-knob, and then the thought came—‘What shall I say? I have nothing to tell—it will be mean to get her into trouble, when I know nothing.’
“Ah! but I did know. The fluttering fingers, the downcast eyes, the bright blush, had told me as plainly as words could tell, that all was not right. But a whistle, a shout of ‘Come, girls!’ made my blood dance again, and a great thrill of pleasure shot through me, as I ran swiftly out of the gate, forgetting every thing, eager only for the sport. Cora was coming out from behind the hedge of box as I passed through the garden. She started when she saw me.
“‘Come, Cora—quick, they are waiting,’ I cried, running on.
“‘What did mamma say?’ she asked, reaching my side.
“I stopped short. ‘Nothing, only that she was sorry,’ I answered, scarcely daring to look at her. ‘Cora, I hope you have not been doing any thing—you know Auntie would send you back if you had, and then we should be late.’
“I was scarcely conscious of what I did. If I had reflected at all, I should have shrunk in horror from persuading any one to deceive, and yet I said those words with the hope of frightening her into silence lest we should miss our pleasure. I knew how easily she could be moved for good or evil. I thought only how we should miss our boating if she should be inclined to confess, and so I put a stop to any such intentions, effectually, by rousing her fears. Cora understood.
“‘You must never tell, then, and mamma won’t find out. I hid my apron, and Ricy will never think of the cream,’ she said confidentially.