“That was not it. I know it was not. If it had been you would have taken the five thousand. And I know, too, that you meant what you said when you told me you never would sell. I have known it all the time. I know you were telling me the truth.”
I was astonished. “You do?” I cried. “Why, you said—”
“Don't! I know what I said, and I am so ashamed. I did not mean it, really. For a moment, there in the library, when Father first told me, I thought perhaps you—but I did not really think it. And when he told me the price, I KNEW. Won't you tell me why you sold?”
“I can't. I wish I could.”
“I believe I can guess.”
I started. “You can GUESS?” I repeated.
“Yes. I think you wanted the money for some purpose, some need which you had not foreseen. And I do not believe it was for yourself at all. I think it was for some one else. Wasn't that it?”
I could not reply. I tried to, tried to utter a prompt denial, but the words would not come. Her “guess” was so close to the truth that I could only stammer and hesitate.
“It was,” she said. “I thought so. For your mother, wasn't it?”
“No, no. Miss Colton, you are wrong. I—”