"Whatever did you do that for?" cried Ellen, turning in the seat to stare at her daughter through her glasses.
"I promised Dory I would. I've spent some of the money—about fifteen hundred dollars—You see, the house was more expensive than I thought. But everything's paid up now."
"I don't need it, and don't want it," said Ellen. "And I won't take it!"
"I promised Dory I would—before we were married. He thinks I've done it. I've let him think so. And—lately—I've been having a sort of house cleaning—straightening things up—and I straightened that up, too."
Ellen Ranger understood. A long pause, during which she looked lovingly at her daughter's beautiful face. At last she said: "No, there don't seem to be no other way out of it." Then, anxiously, "You ain't written Dory what you've done?"
"No," replied Del. "Not yet."
"Not never!" exclaimed her mother. "That's one of the things a body mustn't ever tell anyone. You did wrong; you've done right—and it's all settled and over. He'd probably understand if you told him. But he'd never quite trust you the same again—that's human nature."
"But you'd trust me," objected Del.
"I'm older'n Dory," replied her mother; "and, besides, I ain't your husband. There's no end of husbands and wives that get into hot water through telling, where it don't do any earthly good and makes the other one uneasy and unhappy."
Adelaide reflected. "It is better not to tell him," she concluded.