“Just tell me what is the matter, dear! Has anyone hurt your feelings? If it’s that Gladys Le Baron I’ll certainly get even with her!”
But Bab didn’t answer.
“I’m going to call Ruth,” said Mollie. “I don’t want to waken Aunt Sallie, but you seemed queer all the way home from the ball.”
Bab sat up, when Ruth came in, and dried her eyes.
“I am so sorry you feel so badly, Barbara, dear,” said Ruth, “but, of course, it was a wretched mistake for you to have made. Let’s try to forget that horrid scene. Some servant will pick up the necklace in the morning, and return it to Mrs. Post. Hugh and I have decided that it will be wise for those of us who were in the conservatory just at the last not to speak of what happened. You will forgive us, Mollie, dear, won’t you, if we don’t tell even you?”
“No, I won’t!” cried Mollie, stamping her little slippered foot. “Bab can’t have secrets that make her cry—not from her own sister. And I don’t see, anyway, what Bab has to do with Mrs. Post having lost her emerald necklace. If you think the loss is a secret, you’re wrong, because everybody in the ballroom was whispering it about half an hour afterwards. I heard of it from a perfect stranger!”
“Mollie,” said Ruth quietly, “will you please do me a favor? Don’t ask Barbara to tell you what happened that has worried her. It was nothing but an unfortunate mistake, and will all blow over in the morning.”
“Very well, Ruth,” agreed Mollie. “I won’t ask. But I am not a baby, and I am very sure it would be better if I were told.”
Thus poor Bab had no one in whom to confide, and had to bear her ugly secret all alone.
Ruth kissed her good night, saying: “Cheer up, silly girl, and sleep late as you can in the morning. You know, it’s to be the last day of our tennis practice, and you are going to beat me tomorrow!”