"I don't know," replied Christian.
Miss Peacock took no notice of this vacillating remark. She motioned to Christian to seat herself in a shady corner, where she knew the young girl would be more comfortable than when exposed to the full glare of the light.
"I have got a very good report of you from your different mistresses and your music-master, dear," she said. "They all say you are remarkably well advanced for your age. That being the case, you will soon win a character for cleverness. A clever girl is always respected and thought a good deal of; and I trust you will be respected and looked up to, Christian, and that you will help to bring a good influence into this school—a religious and moral influence, the efficacy of which can never be overrated."
"Oh, please," said Christian, with a little gasp, "you know what I have done!"
Miss Peacock was quite silent for a minute.
"What you did," she then said very gravely, "happened before you came to me."
"I know; but it was because of you—because of coming to the school—that I did it."
Miss Peacock's eyes twinkled for a minute.
"Would you rather discuss the whole thing with me, Christian, or, on the other hand, would you rather let it lie—forget it, cover it up, go straight forward as though it had never been?"
"I think I'd rather discuss it with you. And," continued Christian, "I think I'd rather"—her voice faltered; it sank almost to a whisper—"I think I'd rather the other girls knew."