"It's not true," said Louise passionately. She was on guard in an instant, ready to justify Miss Hartill to herself and the world.
It amused Clare to excite her.
"My good child—what do you know about it?"
"Lots," said Louise, with a catch in her voice. "You're not! You're not!"
"I am." Clare leaned forward, much tickled. She could afford to attempt to disillusion Louise.... Louise would not believe her, but she could not say later that she had not been warned. But at the same time, Clare warmed her cold and cynical self in the pure flame of affection her self-criticism was fanning. "I am," she repeated. "Why do you think I came round to see you to-day?"
Louise looked up at her shyly, dwelling on her answer as if it gave her exquisite pleasure.
"Because—because you knew I was alone, and you hated me to be miserable on Christmas Day."
"You?" Clare's eyebrows lifted for a second, but a glance into the child's candid eyes dispelled the vague suspicion.... Louise and conceit were incompatible. She listened with a touch of compunction to the innocent answer.
"Not me specially, of course. Any one who was down. Only it happened to be me. I think you can't help being good to people: you're made that way." Her eyes were full of wondering admiration.
Clare was touched. She sighed as she answered—