“Never mind,” said Kitty.
“You know what you have done?”
“I guess it.”
“Kitty, won’t you tell me?”
“No, no; you had much better not know. He has never told you, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t, and he hasn’t told mother either. We both asked mother last night, and she says she hasn’t the least idea, not the slightest. We can’t make out what it is; we can’t make out what is the matter.”
Kitty breathed a short, sharp sigh of relief.
“And,” continued Anne; “oh dear! we’re nearly in the town now, and we haven’t done anything at all yet. I tell you what I have done, Kitty, I tell you what I have done, dear. I am sorry for you; I am sorry from the very bottom of my heart, and this morning I sent a telegram to Miss Weston telling her on no account to forward the items until she heard from me again.”
“Did you really do that for me, Anne? Well, you are a brick!” Kitty bent forward and suddenly kissed her companion. “I have despised you sometimes, Anne; but you are a brick,” she repeated. “That was a very, very good thing to do—I—that helps me; yes, that helps me.”
“Well, I wish you’d tell me how it will help you, for, of course, if Miss Weston doesn’t send the bill in at once father will write a stormy letter himself. You know one of his fads is every last day of the year to look round at us all and say, ‘Here I am, and I don’t owe a farthing to any one in the wide world.’ He prides himself on that; he’d no more allow Miss Weston’s bill to remain unpaid before the New Year than he’d fly. It will be Christmas Day in three days from now, and you know how quickly New Year will come round. We have no time to lose, and father is harping and harping on the matter. He spoke to us both about it before we were five minutes in the house. Oh Kitty, what is to be done?”