But at after, in the even, when Father and Aunt Joyce and I were by ourselves a little season in the hall, I heard Aunt Joyce say, very soft—
“Aubrey, didst thou give her the name?”
Methought Father shook his head.
“I dared not, Joyce,” saith he. “She was so sore troubled touching—the other matter.”
“I thought so,” quoth Aunt. “Then I will beware that I utter it not.”
“But Edith knows,” answereth Father in a low voice.
“The maids all know,” saith she. “I did not reckon thou wouldest keep it from her.”
“I should not, but,”—and Father paused. “Thou wist, Joyce, how she setteth her heart on all things.”
“I am afeared, Aubrey, she shall have to know sooner or later. Mistress Lewthwaite did all but utter it to her this morning, only I thank God her memory failed her just at the right minute.”
“We were better to tell her than that,” saith Father, and leaned his head upon his hand as though he took thought.