“But where has she gone?” cried Charley fiercely.
“I don’t know,” sobbed Nelly—“nobody knows. She would not say a word even to mamma; and mamma said it was very obstinate, and that she was obstinate altogether.”
“Do you think—” said Charley huskily, and then he stopped as if he could not utter the words—“do you think she told Max?”
“Told Max!” said Nelly, almost laughingly; “no, she wouldn’t tell him. She hated him too much, for he was always worrying her, when all the time she was ever so fond of you, Charley. I knew it, though she never said so. Pah, she would never tell such a donkey as that, when she would not tell me! They think I’m very stupid; but I know well enough why she wouldn’t stay, nor yet say where she was going: it was all because of Max, so that he should not bother her any more.”
“Go on, pray!” exclaimed Charley.
“I have not got anything more to tell you,” said Nelly pitifully, “only that there was such a scene over and over again; for at the last Laury and Max both wanted her to stay, and Laury asked her over and over again; but I could see through that: it was because Max made her, for some reason of his own.”
Here was a new light altogether: Laura and Max both asking her to stay, and the poor girl led such a life that she was compelled to leave. Why had she not confided in him, then, when he had implored her to listen to him? But that ring?
Troubled in spirit, Charley began to stride up and down the wood, but only to stop once more in front of Nelly.
“When did she go?” he asked.
“Yesterday morning,” said Nelly; “but I couldn’t send you word till to-day. And now I want to ask you something, Charley.”