There was an answering shake of the head.
Dallas pressed her close, murmuring her thankfulness, whispering broken endearments. "Oh, Dal's so glad! She couldn't stand it if her baby sister was to suffer. Oh, honey-heart! honey-heart!"
But Marylyn was not comforted.
"Listen," bade Dallas. "In all your life have you ever asked me to do anything that I didn't do? or to give you anything that I didn't give you if I could? And now something's fretting you. I can't think what it is. But you got to tell me, and I'll help you out."
"No, no!"
"I don't care what it is, I won't blame you; if it's something wrong,—why, it couldn't be,—I'll forgive you. You know that, Marylyn."
Again, "No, no," but with less resistance.
"Tell me," said Dallas, firmly.
Marylyn looked up. "You'll hate me if I do," she faltered.
The elder girl laughed fondly. "As if I could!"