"Yes, ma'am," said Kate steadily, yet not boldly or defiantly, after her usual manner of receiving reproof from her teachers; "and I am afraid I should still have kept silence, if you had not asked me so directly."
"I did not look for this from, you, Kate," said Mrs. Ashton slowly. "Heedless as I know you to be, I did not believe you capable of even an acted deceit."
Kate hung her head in shame, thinking that she not only would have been guilty of this herself, but that she had tried to draw an innocent young child into the same sin. But the little one had stood firmly to the right, refusing, in her own simple language, even to "behave a story." And the trial and temptation had been far greater in her case than in that of her older schoolmates. The last proof of her steadfastness had, happily for her, not been needed; but Kate knew well enough that neither would that have failed, had it been called for.
"How did it happen?" asked Mrs. Ashton.
"I had the clock in my hands," answered Kate, "and, as I went to put it in its place, it fell from them."
"And how came you to have the clock in your hands? What were you doing with it?"
"I wanted to put back the hands."
"And why, may I ask?" said Mrs. Ashton, in astonishment. "Did you imagine that I should not find that the clock was wrong?"
"I—we—I"—stammered Kate, fearing to betray the others who would not speak for themselves, and yet feeling that she could scarcely avoid doing so,—"I wanted Monsieur Gaufrau to be—to think he was too early, so as to gain a little more time before the French lesson."
"And one acted deceit thus led to another," said Mrs. Ashton. "It is generally the way. Your lessons were not ready, then, I take it; and you wished dishonestly—yes, dishonestly, Kate—to gain more time to prepare them."