It was no use. Madeline picked up the magazine and flipped over the pages carelessly till she came to Eleanor's story. "That," she said, holding it out for Betty to see. Their eyes met, and at sight of Betty's frightened, pleading face, Madeline's hand dropped to her side.
"I beg your pardon," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Betty. I see now how it is. You didn't know before; you've just found out, and when I came in you were mourning for your fallen idol. Shall I go?"
Betty stretched out a detaining hand. "No," she said, "tell me,—quick before Helen comes,—how did you know?"
"Read it in 'The Quiver,' away back last fall, before Miss Watson's story came out in the 'Argus.' It's been—oh, amusing, you know, to hear people rave over her wonderful theme."
"Does any one else know?"
"I doubt it. 'The Quiver' isn't on sale up here. Father thinks it's clever and he sends it to me. I suppose he knows the editor. He's always knowing the editors of little, no-account magazines and having to sit up nights to do them cover-designs or something; and then they send him their magazines."
"But—I mean—you haven't told any one?" stammered Betty.
Madeline shook her head. "It wouldn't make a pretty story, do you think?"
"Madeline"—Betty's voice thrilled with earnestness—"did you ever think you ought to tell?"
Madeline stared at Betty for a moment in silence. Then her gray eyes twinkled. "You absurd little Puritan," she said, "is that what you're bothering your head about? I know you don't want to tell. Why aren't you satisfied to let matters take their course?"