“Yes. I shall tell Jane, when we are with mamma at work.”
“That is too bad!” exclaimed Hugh, flinging himself down on the leads so vehemently that his sister was afraid he would roll over into the yard. “What does Jane care about Crofton and the boys to what I do?”
“There is one boy there that Jane cares about more than you do, or I, or anybody, except papa and mamma. Jane loves Phil.”
“O, then, what they are saying in the parlour is about Phil.”
“I did not say that.”
“You pretend you love me as Jane loves Phil! And now you are going to tell her what you won’t tell me! Agnes, I will tell you everything I know all my whole life, if you will just whisper this now. Only just whisper.—Or, I will tell you what. I will guess and guess; and you can nod or shake your head. That won’t be telling.”
“For shame, Hugh! Phil would laugh at you for being a girl if you are so curious. What mamma told Mrs Bicknor was that Jane was her right-hand. What do you think that meant exactly?”
“That Jane might give you a good slap when you are so provoking,” said Hugh, rolling over and over, till his clothes were covered with dust, and Agnes really thought once that he was fairly going over the edge into the yard.
“There is something that I can tell you, Hugh; something that I want to tell you, and nobody else,” said Agnes, glad to see him stop rolling about, and raise himself on his dusty elbow to look at her.
“Well, come, what is it?”