It was a black picture. "Then, I suppose," said Peggy, after a long pause, "that you'll tell your father."
"Father!" Ruth spoke the word with a little protesting cry. "Why, it would kill father to know such a thing about Graham. He never could bear it."
Peggy hesitated. Strong as her sympathy was for Ruth, her sturdy common sense refused to take her friend's view of the case.
"Ruth, this is too serious a thing for two girls like us to keep to ourselves. Somebody's got to know, somebody who'll understand what to do."
Ruth sprang to her feet. "You don't mean that you'll tell. Peggy, you couldn't be so--so dishonorable as to tell. I came to you because I had to confide in somebody. And, now, if I can't trust you--"
"O, good gracious!" exclaimed Peggy with an irritation of which she was immediately ashamed. "Of course I'm not going to tell. But you are. Ruth, you must."
Again and again they went over the ground, Peggy coaxing, persuading, trying vainly to bring her friend's resolution to the sticking point, while Ruth squirmed and evaded and protested, and even accused Peggy of heartlessness.
"I tell you it would kill father. He's wrapped up in Graham. If he found out that he had tricked and cheated him he'd never have another happy minute."
"Your mother, then."
"Mother! Why, that would be worse, if anything could be worse. Her heart isn't strong, you know. The doctor says we must be careful about shocks--"