'Oh no, Alice dear; it would never do to tell mamma. You know what she is, you know how she talks, she would never leave off abusing the Scullys; and then, I don't know how, but somehow everybody would get to know about it. But find it out they will, sooner or later; it is only a question of time.'
'No, no, May, they shall know nothing of this—at least, not if I can help it.'
'But you can't help it.'
'There is one thing quite certain; you must go away. You cannot stop in
Galway.'
'It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to? A girl cannot move a yard away from home without people wanting to know where she has gone.'
Alice's eyes filled with tears.
'You might go up to Dublin,' she said, 'and live in lodgings.'
'And what excuse should I give to mother?' said May, who in her despair had not courage to deny the possibility of the plan.
'You needn't tell her where you are,' replied Alice; and then she hesitated, feeling keenly conscious of the deception she was practising. But her unswerving common sense coming, after a moment's reflection, to her aid, she said: 'You might say that you were going to live in the convent. Go to the Mother Superior, tell her of your need, beg of her, persuade her to receive and forward your letters; and in that way, it seems to me that no one need be the wiser of what is going to happen.'
The last words were spoken slowly, as if with a sense of shame at being forced to speak thus. May raised her face, now aflame with hope and joy.