“Carrie,” said she, “do you believe I told Mr. Worcester?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!” replied the girl, trembling with excitement. “Please go away. Don’t look at me so! I can’t bear it!” And she turned away her head.
Susan said not a word. She turned and walked out of the room.
From that time she made no further attempt to free herself from suspicion; and, though some of the girls were inclined at first to believe that she was not guilty, Florence left nothing undone to prove that she was the informant.
Circumstances, indeed, were against her. She had been seen in Mr. Worcester’s study the day before the discovery was made known; and, more than that, if she did not tell, who could have done so? She alone knew of it.
It seemed almost impossible for Carrie to write to her mother. From time to time she deferred it, until at last her teacher set a certain day on which he said it must be completed and given to him.
With a faint heart, on the appointed day Carrie took it to his study.
He read it: then, after a glance at the wretched girl before him, he said, pointing to a box containing sealing-wax and tapers, “Give me that stand.”
Carrie obeyed; but, instead of sealing the letter, Mr. Worcester held it to the blaze until it was consumed.
“You have had a sufficiently severe lesson, I think,” he said; “and I release you from further punishment.”