“I mean by that, dear, you—you respect me, you consider that I am a fair judge of character?”
“I think so indeed, Mrs. Fleming.”
“Well, that being the case, my dear child, don’t you think that if I see good in Peggy Desmond you ought to believe me and see good in her too?”
“I wish I could,” said Jessie; “but, you see, you haven’t seen her at home.”
“I have seen her where you have not seen her, on her sickbed, tortured with acute pain and never murmuring, bearing it with the patience of a martyr, never once betraying those cruel, cruel girls who very nearly sacrificed her life.”
“Oh, surely, Mrs. Fleming, surely,” exclaimed Jessie, “you don’t really think any girl did such a dreadful thing!”
“I was wrong to speak as I did,” said Mrs. Fleming, “and I hope, girls, you won’t let it go any further. But I may as well tell you now, plainly and absolutely and from the bottom of my heart, that I don’t believe in the pony theory; that was not the way Peggy’s leg was broken.”
“She might have jumped over a stile,” interrupted Jessie, “or there may be fifty other ways of accounting for the accident.”
“No, beyond doubt the fracture was caused by a severe kick or a blow from some instrument.”
“How could a girl do that, Mrs. Fleming?”