“You will be brave?” Betty appealed to her. “You will not give way, Rosy?”
“Yes, I must be brave—I am not ill now. I must not fail you—I won't, Betty, but——”
She slipped upon the floor and dropped her face upon the girl's knee, sobbing.
Betty bent over her, putting her arms round the heaving shoulders, and pleading with her to speak. Was there something more to be told, something she did not know?
“Yes, yes. Oh, I ought to have told you long ago—but I have always been afraid and ashamed. It has made everything so much worse. I was afraid you would not understand and would think me wicked—wicked.”
It was Betty who now lost a shade of colour. But she held the slim little body closer and kissed her sister's cheek.
“What have you been afraid and ashamed to tell me? Do not be ashamed any more. You must not hide anything, no matter what it is, Rosy. I shall understand.”
“I know I must not hide anything, now that all is over and father is coming. It is—it is about Mr. Ffolliott.”
“Mr. Ffolliott?” repeated Betty quite softly.
Lady Anstruthers' face, lifted with desperate effort, was like a weeping child's. So much so in its tear-wet simpleness and utter lack of any effort at concealment, that after one quick look at it Betty's hastened pulses ceased to beat at double-quick time.