"I shall never be able to thank you properly," she said gravely. "You are the kindest boy I ever knew, and I haven't deserved that you should be kind to me—indeed I haven't. Bob knows that don't you, Bob? I ought to tell you, Tim, that, until quite lately, I believed you had had to do with the death of my rabbit, and I hope you'll forgive me for thinking it. I had no right to think so badly of you as that, and now I'm dreadfully ashamed to remember that I did. Do forgive me, won't you?"
"I—I've nothing to forgive," gasped Tim, utterly taken aback by the little girl's words and the remorseful expression of her face. "I—I wish you wouldn't speak like that, and—"
"Just say you forgive her, Shuttleworth, and she'll be satisfied," interposed Bob. "It's been on her mind that she's thought worse of you than you deserve," he added with a smile.
"Yes, I ought to have taken your word, Tim," said Kitty distressfully. "I know now that you wouldn't tell a story for the world. Why, what's the matter?"
Well might she inquire, for Tim's plain, freckled countenance was quivering with strong emotion. The next moment he disappeared from view on the other side of the wall, leaving the brother and sister staring at each other in blank amazement.
"He could hardly keep from crying," said Bob, "that's why he's gone. I should never have thought he was such a moody-hearted chap as that."
"I didn't say anything to hurt him, did I?" asked Kitty anxiously. Then, as Bob shook his head, she proceeded, "Fancy his keeping the secret about Fluffy all this time! If father had allowed me to tell him that I saw him take away the covered basket, we should have found out the truth before. I was right about that, you see. Perhaps he'll come back in a few minutes and talk to us again."
But Tim did not return. He had rushed indoors and upstairs to his own room; and whilst Kitty and Bob lingered in the garden, waiting and hoping to see his red head appear over the wall he was sobbing by his bedside and shedding the bitterest, most repentant tears that had ever dimmed his eyes in his short life, as he recalled the words Kitty had spoken in such a tone of conviction—"I know now that you wouldn't tell a story for the world."