"And you are grown wiser since then, cousin—do you mean to say that?" asked the harassed one, with a little more spirit than before—for which John applauded her in his heart. He understood it all now.
"Yes, I am grown wiser, miss," replied Elizabeth. "I didn't know then how your father was robbing my father and all of us."
"It isn't robbing. Father borrowed the money, and if he could pay it back, he would; and if he can't, he can't."
"And why can't he? What's he always getting drunk for? That isn't the way to get on, and to pay his debts, I reckon; is it? And your mother, too—"
"I won't hear you talk like that—I won't; no, I won't!" cried the unhappy girl, desperately. "Let me go, Elizabeth."
There seemed then, to Tincroft, as though there were a slight scuffle; but while he hesitated whether or not to make his presence known by some audible token, it ceased, and the conversation was resumed.
"There, there, I didn't mean to hurt you, Sarah," were the first words spoken, and in response, as it appeared, to the pantings and hysterical sobs of the weaker girl—"and I don't believe I have. But I have not said what I had to say to you, and I mean to say it."
"You may say what you like now, Elizabeth."
"I don't mean to say anything more about uncle Mark and aunt," the other went on; "because I know as well as you do, that you can't help that. And you and I might be as good friends as ever, Sarah, if you would only be sensible, as I said before, and see things as you ought. Now look, dear—"
(Oh, thought John Tincroft, in his concealment—dear, too! When women begin to call one another dear, it looks ominous. So I have heard. Not that I know anything about it. How should I?)