“Flora!” cried Ethel, too much shocked to bring out another word.
“If you are unfortunate enough to have such suspicions,” said Margaret quietly, “I think it would be better to be silent.”
“As if you did not know Norman!” stammered Ethel.
“Well,” said Flora, “I don’t wish to think so. You know I did not hear Norman himself, and when papa gives his vehement accounts of things, it always puzzles us of the cooler-minded sort.”
“It is as great a shame as ever I heard!” cried Ethel, recovering her utterance. “Who would you trust, if not your own father and brother?”
“Yes, yes,” said Flora, not by any means wishing to displease her sisters. “If there is such a thing as an excess of generosity, it is sure to be among ourselves. I only know it does not suit me. It will make us all uncomfortable whenever we meet the Andersons or Mr. Wilmot, or any one else, and as to such tenderness to Harvey Anderson, I think it is thrown away.”
“Thrown away on the object, perhaps,” said Margaret, “but not in Norman.”
“To be sure,” broke out Ethel. “Better be than seem! Oh, dear! I am sorry I was vexed with dear old June when he told me. I had rather have him now than if he had gained everything, and every one was praising him—that I had! Harvey Anderson is welcome to be dux and Randall scholar for what I care, while Norman is—while he is, just what we thought of the last time we read that Gospel—you know, Margaret?”
“He is—that he is,” said Margaret, “and, indeed, it is most beautiful to see how what has happened has brought him at once to what she wished, when, perhaps, otherwise it would have been a work of long time.”
Ethel was entirely consoled. Flora thought of the words “tete exaltee” and considered herself alone to have sober sense enough to see things in a true light—not that she went the length of believing that Norman had any underhand motives, but she thought it very discreet in her to think a prudent father would not have been satisfied with such a desire to avoid investigation.