"No, I will not go away. You are in trouble. I want to help you."
"You cannot—nobody can help me," and again her voice was choked with sobs.
"Of course somebody can help you. Tell me about it. Perhaps I can help you."
"But I cannot tell—my trouble—is—is—a secret."
"A secret," Lincoln said—"a secret—who from?"
"From everybody in the world but John McNeil. I promised him I would not tell—not even my mother."
"He got you to swear to a secret you could not confide in your mother?" and Lincoln seemed aghast.
"Yes—and I never had a secret from Father and Mother before."
"Ann—Ann Rutledge!" and Lincoln's voice was no longer gentle; "a secret from a girl's mother is never the right kind of a secret. A mother is the one person on earth no honorable man would want secrets kept from. It is wrong Ann—wrong."
"I believe it is. It is wearing me out—it is breaking my heart—I feel that I cannot keep it—and yet I promised."