In the firelight little Miss Jessie's face looked quite troubled; she took both of Christian's hands.
"You are excited," she said. "You have traveled far; the effects of your illness are still perceptible."
"Oh, I wasn't ill! It is about that I want to speak to you. You at least must know the truth."
"Oh, but I never know things of that sort," said Miss Jessie in an alarmed voice. "Dear Lavinia Peacock would be distressed. I beg of you, my child. Oh, what is it? Actually the dear child is crying. Well, of course, Christian, if it relieves your mind, dear——"
"It does—it does!" said Christian. "I couldn't sleep to-night if you didn't know it. It wasn't illness."
"My dear, dear child."
"It was naughtiness."
"Children are often naughty," said Miss Jessie.
"But not like my naughtiness. It was big—it was worse; it was wickedness. I ran away."
"You did what, dear?" said Miss Jessie; and now she backed from Christian and looked at her with her round, rosy, good-natured face paling with horror.