“What?” exclaimed Guy. “What did you do?”
“Why—nothing very much,” said Florella, “after all. But we rustled about when we thought the maids would hear us, and stamped along the passages to make footsteps, and hid when any one was coming, and Constancy pretended to sob and cry, and then we watched to see how people would take it; we never dressed up, you know, it was only noises. Of course there was a notion that there were noises, or no one would have noticed.”
“And didn’t—did no one find you out?”
“No. I don’t think that really we frightened any one very much. Of course, I always knew it was naughty, and that Aunt Connie would be angry if she knew. But, as we went on doing it, I got to have a feeling of what it would have been like if it had been true; perhaps I frightened myself, for we didn’t make all the noises that we heard. And I don’t know, Cosy did it quite simply; but I got to feel as if there was something profane in playing tricks with things one could not understand, and it has always been on my conscience. So, as you were here when we did it, and as you belong to the place, I thought I would confess, for really I have always felt it more wrong than many things I’ve been punished for.”
“Why do you think that?” said Guy, quickly.
“Why, I suppose taking false and silly views of great subjects is one of the chief things that prevent people from being really good. Then you can’t see.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Guy, “will you come with me and look at that picture?”
He could hardly tell what prompted the request; but he felt that he could better bear the sight of the picture with her than alone.
Florella agreed, though a little surprised, and they followed the rest of the party into the house and upstairs. They heard their voices as they made the round, but the little octagon room was empty.
“Look at him,” said Guy, “and tell me just what you see in his face. Yes,” as she glanced at him, “I know he is like me. But if you were drawing that face—like a flower—what should you try to show?”