Often Doris would have opened her lips to confess, but always closed them again. Daily she grew more irritable, spoke in hollow tones, and laughed at every thing. Lotty knew exactly all that went on. She bided her time, ready to spring like a cat whenever the hour should be ripe. One day Doris could not get out, and so begged Lotty, in a seemingly indifferent tone, to carry a letter to the tree. Lotty held the letter between her fingers and looked now at it, now at Doris.
"Well," said Doris, sharply, but without looking up, "is it inconvenient to you?"
"No," said Lotty, carelessly, went towards the door, and then came back beside Doris.
"I shall only carry that letter," she said, "after I have told you what manner of man your lover is."
Lotty looked so fierce that Doris shuddered.
"He loved me, me, long before he loved you: me he has kissed many hundred times in this very park ere ever he gave you the one that made you so happy; me he promised to wed. It is me he called his dear heart, his love, all the soft names he has called you; and on the evening you were betrothed to him, I hit him in his face, and now he is so vile that no decent girl would wish to have him; and you, you carry on a secret love affair with him."
Doris grew giddy; but before she had taken in the full sense of these words, Lotty had left the room and did not re-appear.
The following evening, when Lotty had just got into bed, Doris stood before her like a ghost. She shook her arms and said—
"Come!"
She followed Doris into her room. The girl shut and locked the door, and pocketed the key.