"Certainly not," said Henrietta. "There would always be the years."
"I mean something that he had done himself," explained Bartlett soberly, a sandwich in one hand, a buttered roll in the other.
"Don't tell me your troubles," said Henrietta, thinking miserably of the years it would soon be so hard to deny. "I have enough of my own. Confession may be good for the soul, but it's the death-blow to your reputation."
"Father used to say that if there were public confession instead of private in the Catholic church, there would be no Catholics," said the Watermelon, helping Billy to the last of the sardines.
"Let's have a public confession," cried the artless Billy. "Everybody tell the worst thing that they ever did in their lives."
The Watermelon laughed and leaned toward her, a moth flirting with the candle flame. "Oh, kid; I'll bet the worst you ever did was to swipe the jam-pot when ma wasn't looking."
"No," said Billy, "I did an awful thing once."
"Let's hear it."
Billy took the olive bottle from Henrietta, speared an olive and passed the bottle on before she spoke. "Will you confess, if I do?" she asked, pausing with the olive half way to her mouth.
"Sure," said the Watermelon. "I robbed an apple orchard once."