[80]
]For a minute Mr. Burnham’s frown did not disappear—not till he noticed how white her face was; he told himself he had never seen a child’s face so white in all his life.
“What is it, little girl?” he said, and really thought he made his voice quite gentle and encouraging, though to Poppet it sounded terrible.
“I——” she said—“you——” Something rose in her throat that would not be strangled away, her face grew even whiter, and her lips, white too, twitched a little, but the words would not come.
He took her hand, the little trembling, shut, brown hand, and held it between his own.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, my child; tell me what it is you want”; he drew her closer to the desk, and sat down. He seemed less formidable in that position than towering above her—his eyes looked strangely kind; could it really be the terrible Mr. Burnham she had heard so much about? The hand he held fluttered a minute, then her lips moved again:
“[Bunty didn’t] do it,” she said in a whisper.
“Eh? what?” he said, mystified.
“He didn’t do it—Bunty didn’t do it—oh, indeed.”
“But who is Bunty? and who are you, my little [81] ]maid?” Mr. Burnham said, with a smile that lit up his thoughtful eyes.
“He’s my brother,” she said in a voice that had gained a little strength.