Chris looked the picture of despair. The colour had again left her pretty cheeks; there were lines brought by anxiety in her fair young face; the tears were gathering in her eyes. And yet there was something comical in the look of resignation with which she deliberately sat down as soon as her mother had done so, determined to brave the matter out, and get her confession and her scolding over and done with. At her mother’s question, therefore, she drew a sigh which sounded like one of relief.
“It means, mother dear,” she began, frankly, “that—oh! dear, I know you’ll be so angry! And it will worry you besides! I wish you wouldn’t ask me. You might take it for granted I haven’t done anything dreadful, nothing more than I used to do when I was twelve, when I used to find love letters from Willie Mansfield behind the scraper, and answer them in the holly-bush so that he might prick his fingers when he got them.”
She ended with another sigh, as she rested her little round chin in her hand, and looked plaintively at the fire.
But Mrs. Abercarne was not to be put off like this.
“Christina,” she said solemnly, drawing herself up another inch, and looking at the fire herself, lest her daughter’s sighs should mollify her too soon, “I insist upon a full explanation. You have given me none. All I know at present is, that my daughter has so far forgotten what is due to herself as a gentlewoman, as to carry on a clandestine correspondence with some unknown person. I insist upon knowing at once who the person is.”
Chris looked at her dolefully.
“Oh, mother, won’t it do if I promise not to write again, and not to receive any more letters?”
“No, Christina, it will not do,” said Mrs. Abercarne, obstinately. “It is a matter of course that you will cease this correspondence. But, in the meantime, I insist on knowing the name of the person who has induced you to jeopardise your own self-respect.”
Whereupon Chris jumped up with a gesture indicating restlessness and despair.