"Chérie," said Louise, drawing the girl down beside her on the wide old divan on which the little Whitakers had sprawled to learn their lessons in years gone by. "I have something to say to you."
"I knew you had," exclaimed Chérie, flushing. "I knew it yesterday when I saw you. It is good news!"
Louise hesitated. "Yes ... for me," she said falteringly, "it is good news. For you, my dear little sister, for you ... unless you realize what has befallen us—it may be very terrible news."
Chérie looked at her with startled eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked under her breath.
Louise put her hand to her neck as if something were choking her. Her throat was dry; she could find neither words nor voice in which to give to the waiting girl her message of two-fold shame.
"Chérie ... my darling ... I must speak to you about that night ... your birthday-night——"
Chérie started back. "No!" she cried. "You said when we came here that we were to forget it—that it was a dream! Why—why should you speak of it again?"
"Chérie," said Louise in a low voice, "perhaps for you." ... She faltered, "for you it may have been a dream. But not for me."
The girl sat straight upright, tense and alert. "What do you mean, Louise?"
"I mean that for me that night has borne its evil fruit. Chérie! I thought of killing myself. But yesterday ... I spoke to Dr. Reynolds. He has promised to save me."