“Oh mother, how can I bear it?”
“My poor child, it will be dreadful for you.”
“Oh mother, why did she come here? I could almost hate her! And yet—no, I do not hate her—no, I do not; I pity her.”
“You are an angel! When I think that you, my sweet, will be mixed up in this, and—and injured by it, and brought to low esteem by it, oh, my dearest, what can I say?”
Audrey was silent for a moment. She bent her head and looked down; then she spoke.
“It is a trial,” she said, “but I am not to be pitied as Evelyn is to be pitied. Mother darling, there is but one thing to be done.”
“What is that, dearest?”
“To get her to repent—to get her to confess between now and the morning after next. Oh mother! leave her to me.”
“I will, Audrey. If any one can influence her, you can; you are so brave, so good, so strong!”
“Nay, I have but little influence over her,” said Audrey. “Let me think for a few moments, mother.”