Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said:
“Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want.”
“I told you nothing that was true.”
“It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?”
“Helen, you wouldn’t think I’d invent that?”
“I suppose not,” said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. “But one loses faith in everything after this.”
“We thought it was illness, but even then—I haven’t behaved worthily.”
Helen selected another book.
“I ought not to have consulted anyone. What would our father have thought of me?”
She did not think of questioning her sister, nor of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed—that want of confidence that is the work of the devil.