“The editor, Arnold Bruce,” answered her aunt.
“Oh, he’s a brute! If I could tell him to his face——” Her whole slender being flamed with anger and hatred, and she crushed the paper in a fierce hand and flung it to the floor.
Then, slowly, her face faded to an ashen gray. She steadied herself on the back of a chair and stared in desperate, fearful supplication at the bowed figure of the older woman.
“Auntie?” she breathed.
“Yes?”
“Auntie”—eyes and voice were pleading—“auntie, the—the things—this paper says—they never happened, did they?”
The old head nodded.
“Oh! oh!” she gasped. She wavered, sank stricken into a chair, and buried her face in her arms. “Poor father!” she moaned brokenly. “Poor father!”
There was silence for a moment, then the old woman rose and gently put a hand upon the quivering young shoulder.
“Don’t, dear! Even if it did happen, I can’t believe it. Thy father——”