Aneta did not question her any further, but she drew her down to a low chair by the fire, and put a hand on her lap, and kept on looking at the treasures: the bracelets, the crosses, the brooches, the quaint designs belonging to a bygone period. After a time she said, “I am not at all sure—I am not a real judge of treasures; but I have an uncle, Sir Charles Lysle, who knows more about these things than any one else in London; and if he thinks what I am inclined to think with regard to the contents of these two boxes, you will be”––She stopped abruptly.
Maggie’s eyes were shining. “Aneta,” she said, “don’t talk of these any more; and don’t talk either of wealth or poverty any more. There is something I want to say. When you came into my room just now I was packing up to run away.”
“Oh yes, I know that,” said Aneta. “I saw that you had that intention the moment I entered the room.”
“And you said nothing!”
“Why should I? I didn’t want to force your confidence. But you’re not going to run away now, Mags?” She bent towards her and kissed her on the forehead.
“Yes,” said Maggie, trembling. “I want you to let me go.”
“I cannot possibly do that, dear. If you go, I go too.”
“I must go,” said Maggie. “You don’t understand. You found things out about me to-day, and you have behaved—well, splendidly. I didn’t give you credit for it. I didn’t know you. Now I do know you, and I see that no girl in the school can be compared to you for nobleness and courage, and just for being downright splendid. But, Aneta, I cannot bear that which is before me.”
“The fact is,” said Aneta, “you are in the midst of a terrible battle, and you mean to give in and turn tail, and let the enemy walk over the field. That is not a bit what I should have expected at one time from Maggie Howland.”
“I will tell you,” said Maggie. “I am not really a bit brave; there is nothing good in me.”