“We have a secret between us—haven’t we, Rachel?”
It was Rachel’s turn now to color and look eager.
“Yes,” she said; “oh, yes.”
“Some day,” whispered Phil—“some day, when the Marmadukes are here, we might go near the lady’s house—might we not?”
Rachel caught the boy’s arm with a strong convulsive grasp.
“If we might!” she said. “If we only dared! And you and I, Phil, might steal away from the others, and go close to the lady’s house, and watch until she came out. And we might see her—oh! we might see her, even if we did not dare to speak.”
“I want to go,” said Phil—“I want to go to that house again, although it is not because I want to see the lady. It is a secret; all my life is made up of secrets. But I will go if—if I have a chance. And if you see me stealing away by myself you will help me—won’t you, Rachel?”
“Trust me,” said Rachel, with enthusiasm. “Oh, what a dear boy you are, Phil! I can scarcely believe when I talk to you that you are only eight years old; you seem more like my own age. To be only eight is very young, you know.”
“I have had a grave sort of life,” said Phil, with a hastily suppressed sigh, “and I suppose having a great many secrets to keep does make a boy seem old.”