"It was very, very wrong of you," she repeated. "And as wrong to say you are a burden to us. It is almost as if you believed we thought you were. I must tell my dear mother to scold you."
"No, do not tell her, Lauretta; it might pain her. I did not mean what I said. Let it be a secret between us."
"A secret!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to my face. "I never had one; but there is no harm in this."
"You have no secrets, Lauretta?"
"Not one," she replied, with guileless frankness; "and I will promise that my mother shall not chide you if you will promise not to try to force yourself into strength. The wisest and cleverest man cannot do that. But perhaps you are weary of us, and wish to run away?"
"I should be content to remain here for ever, Lauretta."
"Well, then," she said gaily, "be patient for a few days, and, as my dear father would say, do not be inconsistent." She uttered the last four words in playful imitation of her father's voice, and I was enchanted with this revealment of innocent lightness in her nature. "But I am losing sight of his admonition."
"He bade you do something?"
"Yes; he said you might like me to read or play for you. Which shall I do?"
"Neither, Lauretta."