"I hate to have my letters read."
"They're not read by girls like me; you needn't be afraid."
Nan rushed off in a huff, and Annie walked slowly down the corridor. Her heart felt like lead. She fully believed that Nan had not read the letter, but Nan's eyes might have happened to glance at the postmark on it. That postmark contained a date only one week old. Nan was the last child to whom Annie felt she could confide her guilty secret.
"Oh, dear, dear," she murmured under her breath, "what a true saying it is, that 'the way of transgressors is hard.' I am a mean, low sort, not a doubt of that. Why, if the Lorrimers and Thorntons really knew me as I am, they wouldn't speak to me. Well, there's nothing for it now but to carry matters with a high hand, and to let nothing out. If Nan does happen to have noticed the date on the letter, I'll tell her she was mistaken. How could I have been so mad as to carry this letter about in my pocket? Well, to make all things sure, I'll destroy it now."
"Annie, Annie, we're just going to lunch," called out Hester; "what are you running into the garden for?"
"I'll be back in a minute," shouted Annie.
She ran quickly out of the house and down the broad grass walk which led to the arbour at the farther end. By the side of the arbour lay a basket of tools. Annie snatched up a small trowel, and going to the back of the arbour, dug a hole for her letter. She tore it then into fragments and buried it, looked round her eagerly, saw that there was not a soul in sight, and then, with a certain sense of relief, hurried back to the house.