It was a curious mingling of the very young girl and the passionate budding woman, and Aunt Sophia read her very truly as she said softly: “Ah, well, child, time will cure all this. But who has troubled the poor little baby heart?”
“Yes, aunt, that’s right; that’s what it is; but it will never be a baby heart again for such a man as Mr Prayle.”
“And so Mr Prayle has been playing fast and loose with you, has he, dear?”
“No, aunt,” said the girl sadly. “It was all my silliness. He never said a word to me; and I am glad now,” she cried, firing up. “He’s a bad, wicked man.”
“Indeed, my dear,” thought Aunt Sophia, as she recalled Saxby’s words.
“I—I—I went into the study this morning, for I did not like it. I was hurt and annoyed, aunt, dear. Ought I to tell you all this?”
“Think for yourself, my dear. You have been with me these fifteen years, ever since your poor mother died. I am a cross old woman, I know, full of whims and caprices; but I thought I had tried to fill a mother’s place to you.”
“Oh, auntie, auntie!” sobbed the girl, clinging lightly to her, and drawing herself more and more up, till she could rest her head upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t think me ungrateful. I do—I do love you very dearly.”
“Enough to make you feel that there should be no want of confidence between us?”
“O yes, aunt, dear; and I’ll never think of keeping anything back from you again. I’ll tell you everything now, and then I’m sure you’ll say we ought to go away from here.”