William fell back in his chair.
“Well, well,” he muttered, “well, well! She is a child, and no mistake!” He paused, his brows drawn into a troubled frown. “But, Aunt Hannah, what CAN I do? Of course you could talk to her, but—I don't seem to quite like that idea.”
“My grief and conscience—no, no! That isn't what is needed at all. It would only serve to make her self-conscious; and that's her one salvation now—that she isn't self-conscious. You see, it's only the fault of her environment and training, after all. It isn't her heart that's wrong.”
“Indeed it isn't!”
“It will be different when she is older—when she has seen a little more of the world outside Hampden Falls. She'll go to school, of course, and I think she ought to travel a little. Meanwhile, she mustn't live—just like this, though; certainly not for a time, at least.”
“No, no, I'm afraid not,” agreed William, perplexedly, rising to his feet. “But we must think—what can be done.” His step was even slower than usual as he left the room, and his eyes were troubled.
CHAPTER XV
WHAT BERTRAM CALLS “THE LIMIT”
At half past ten o'clock on the evening following Mrs. Stetson's very plain talk with William, the telephone bell at the Beacon Street house rang sharply. Pete answered it.