Miss Tredgold came back in a minute.
“I have sent for Dr. Moffat,” she said. “I hope he will be here after dinner. My dear child, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Are you going to forgive me?” faltered Pauline. “I—I almost think I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You are a very queer child, and I may as well tell you frankly you are talking nonsense. You did wrong, of course, to put on the white dress; but I think, my dear, your sufferings have been your punishment. We will say no more now about the burnt sleeve. Fortunately I have plenty of the same muslin in the house, and the mischief can be quickly repaired. Now, dear, lie back in that chair. No; you are not to come in to dinner. It shall be sent to you here on a tray.”
For the rest of the evening Pauline was so pitied and fussed over, and made so thoroughly comfortable, that she began to think the black, black lie she had uttered quite a good thing.
“Here am I half out of my scrape,” she thought. “Now, if I can only persuade Nancy not to force us to go to that midnight picnic, and not to tell if we don’t go, and if I can get the thimble back, I shall be once more as happy as the day is long. This wicked black lie shall not frighten me. There is no other way out. I cannot possibly tell the truth. What would Nancy think if I did?”
The doctor came. He ordered a healing lotion for the arm; he also felt the pulse of the little patient. He declared her to be slightly feverish, and ordered her to bed.
Half the next day Pauline stayed in her comfortable bed. She was fed with dainties by Aunt Sophia, was not expected to learn any lessons, and was given a fascinating story-book to wile away the time. During the morning, when she was not engaged in the schoolroom, Miss Tredgold stayed by the little girl’s side, and mended the burnt dress, cutting out a new sleeve and putting it in with deft, clever fingers.
Pauline watched her as one fascinated. As she looked and observed the graceful figure, the kindly expression of the eyes, and the noble pose of the head, there stole over her desolate little heart a warm glow. She began to love Aunt Sophia. When she began to love her she began also to hate herself.
“I don’t want to love her a bit,” thought the child. “I want quite to detest her. If I love her badly—and perhaps I may—it will make things that must happen much more difficult.”