“You speak foolishly,” said he.
“Yet you understand me perfectly,” she returned.
“I confess that I do not,” he coldly persisted.
“Then I must explain,” said she. “When my mother died I was but eight years of age. But I was old for my years, and on her deathbed your sister placed in my hands a sealed envelope, directing me to guard it carefully and secretly, and not to open it until I was eighteen years of age—and not then unless I had in some way incurred the enmity and persecution of my uncle, George Burthon. She said it was her confession.”
He sat perfectly still, as if turned to stone, his eyes fixed full upon the girl’s face. With an effort he said, in a soft voice:
“Have I persecuted you?”
“Indirectly; yes.”
“But you cannot be eighteen yet!”
“No,” she admitted; “I am only seventeen.”
He breathed a sigh of relief.