“Really, ma’am, there is nothing.”
“Maria, you cannot deceive me. I can read you perfectly. You have some reason for that innuendo and after all I have done for you and that Mr Neil has done for you, I consider that you are acting very ungratefully by this reserve.”
Maria began to cry.
“It—it—it wasn’t from ungratefulness ma’am, I’m sure, for I’m bubbling over with gratitude to you and Mr Neil, and it was all on account of him that I spoke as I did.”
“Now, Maria, what do you mean?” cried Aunt Anne, for the spark ignited upon her tinder-like nature was rapidly beginning to glow.
“Please, please, don’t ask me, ma’am,” said Maria, with sobs. “I would not make mischief in a house for worlds.”
“Nobody asks you to make mischief, Maria; but if you have seen peculations, or matters connected with the housekeeping going wrong during your master’s illness, it is your duty to speak.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it wasn’t anything of that sort.”
“Then what was it?” said Aunt Anne judicially. “And I’d be the last to speak, ma’am, knowing how valuable a character is to a poor person; and well I know how easy it is to make mistakes and be deceived, especially about such matters as that.”
“Maria, I insist. Why do you wish your master to be better?”