“Why do you stop?” said Lady Lisle, excitedly.
“I don’t—don’t like to tell you any more, my lady. I don’t—I don’t indeed.”
“Jane!”
“Pray don’t make me tell, my lady,” sobbed the girl; “it will hurt you so.”
“I must bear it, Jane,” said the poor woman, hoarsely. “I must know the truth.”
Jane gave a gulp, as if she was swallowing something, and her voice changed almost to a whisper, as she went on: “I could hear whispering, my lady, and—and—and—Oh! don’t make me tell, my lady.”
“I must know, Jane,” cried the quavering questioner, in a tone which completely mastered all further hesitation.
“There was kissing, my lady, quite plain, and she—”
“She?”
“Yes, my lady—began sobbing and crying, and him whispering to her not to make such a noise or she’d be heard, and calling her dear and darling, I think, but it was all so low.”