"Oh, Father!" exclaimed Patty with a sob, "it makes all the difference in the world!"
"There it is," said Vetch with anxious weariness. "That is all I can get out of her."
"She is so tired," replied Corinna. "Let her rest." Though her gaze was on the street, she saw still the dusk beyond the ailantus tree and the old woman, with the crooked back, pressing down the eyelids over those staring eyes.
They did not speak again through the short drive; and when they reached the house and entered the hall, Patty turned for the first time to Corinna. "I can never tell you," she began, "I can never tell you—" Then, with a strangled sob, she broke away and ran to the staircase beyond the library.
"Let her rest," said Corinna, as Vetch came with her on the porch. "Leave her to herself. She needs sleep, but she is very young—and for youth there is no despair that does not pass."
"You are as tired as she is," he returned.
She nodded. "I am going home to sleep, but the look of that child worries me."
"I kept it from her for sixteen years," he said slowly, "and she found out by an accident."
"I never suspected, or I might have prevented it."
"No, I trusted too much to chance. I have always trusted to chance."