"What does your mother say?" asked Mary, slowly. "Is she willing, Sue?"
"I am not going to tell her!" said Sue.
Her tone was defiant, but she colored high, and did not look at Mary as she spoke.
"You are not—going—to tell your mother?" repeated Mary, in dismay. "Oh, Sue!"
"Now, hush, hush, Mary Hart, and listen to me! Clarice says what's the use? She says it would only worry Mother, and I ought not to worry her when she is so delicate. She says she thinks it is a great mistake for girls to keep running to their mothers about everything when they are as big as we are. She never does, she says—well, it's her aunt, but that makes no difference, she says; and she is fifteen, you know. Besides, my mother is very different from yours; you know she is, Mary. I suppose I should want to tell things to your mother if she was mine. But you know perfectly well how Mamma is; she never seems to care, and it only bothers her and makes her head ache."
"Sue, how can you talk so? Your mother is ill so much of the time, of course she can't—can't be like my Mammy, I suppose."
Mary faltered a little as she said this. She had often wished that Mrs. Penrose would take more interest in Sue's daily life, but she felt that this was very improper talk.
"I don't think you ought to talk so, Sue!" she said stoutly. "I am sure you ought not. I think Clarice Packard has a very bad influence over you, and I wish she had never come here."
"Clarice says you are jealous, Mary, and that you try to make trouble between her and me. I don't believe that; but you have no imagination, and you cannot appreciate Clarice. If you knew what she has done for me—how she has opened my eyes."
Sue's vivid face deepened into tragedy. "Mary, I believe I will tell you, after all. I didn't mean to,—Clarice warned me not to,—but I will. Mary, there is a mystery in my life. Hush! don't speak—don't say a word! I am a foundling!"