The elder girl knelt at Lucy's feet—her own Lucy whom she still looked upon in her heart as a little child.
"Does anything worry you, darling?" she said.
No answer.
"Trust me, Lucy; we are always friends, let me share this trouble."
"I can't," faltered the girl, as she gnawed her lips, which trembled and turned pale; "I think I shall drown myself."
Then Georgie took the blanched hand of the motherless girl, and entreated her.
"Do tell me, darling; you must tell me, Lucy. Something is preying on your mind; trust me, do trust me, pet."
Not then did Lucy Warrender tell her trouble to her cousin. But that night, unwillingly and ungraciously enough, she told her grief. Pale as a ghost, her fingers intertwined in a convulsive grip, she knelt by her cousin's bed and told her shameful story. She made her pitiful appeal. With dilated eyes, Georgina listened in terror to Lucy's confidence. It was the old tale. Lucy was about to become a mother; this was all she told. Was it not enough? She looked imploringly up at her cousin as she whispered:
"You can save me, Georgie, if you will—if you love me, as I know you do; and if you won't, there is nothing left for me but the lake, the cold, cruel lake." Here she laughed hysterically, and nestled to her cousin's breast.
The elder girl was struck dumb. The shame of it, the bitter shame of this accursed thing.