"Forgive me—forgive me, my dear friend—I, only, am to blame. But at the moment I was overcome by the thought that, in the heart of London, such a system of cold-blooded murder—"
She was unable to proceed, and Arabella, holding her arm tightly within her own, said—
"Do not attempt to say another word until we get home. There, in my chamber, you can give free vent to your feelings, but let the danger, as well as the impropriety of doing so in the open street, be present to your mind. Say no more now, I implore you; say no more."
This was prudent advice, and Johanna had sufficient command of herself to take it, for she uttered not one other word until they were both almost breathless with the haste they had made to Arabella's chamber. Then, being no longer under the restraint of locality or circumstances, the tears of Johanna burst forth, and she wept abundantly. Arabella's romantic reading did sometimes, as it would appear, stand her in good stead, and upon this occasion she did not attempt to stem the torrent of grief that was making its way from the eyes of her fair young friend. She told herself that with those tears a load of oppressive grief would be washed from Johanna's spirit, and the result fully justified her prognostications. The tears subsided into sobs, and the sobs to sighs.
"Ah, my dear friend," she said, "how much have you to put up with from me. What a world of trouble I am to you."
"No," said Arabella, "that you are not, Johanna; I am only troubled when I see you overcome with too excessive grief, and then, I confess, my heart is heavy."
"It shall not be so again. Forgive me this once, dear Arabella."
Johanna flung herself into her friend's arms, and while they kissed each other, and Arabella was about commencing a hopeful kind of speech, a servant girl, with open mouth and eyes, looked into the room, transfixed with amazement.
"Well, Miss Bella," she cried at last, "you is fond of boys!"
Arabella started, and so did Johanna.