“You dally,” cried Dick, his eyes bright with fever. “I see how it is! You fibbed to me, Jeanne. I know you did.”
“No, Dick, I did not,” cried Jeanne, heartbroken at the thought that Dick could believe such a thing of her. “Listen, and I will tell you all about it. Snowball can tell you too, if you do not believe me. But you will be quiet, Dick, won’t you? You will be very, very quiet.”
“You are not taking a very good way to get your brother well,” exclaimed Madame, entering abruptly. “I will have to forbid you the room if you excite him like this. Can’t you let your tales of me wait until he is strong enough to bear them?”
“Are they true?” asked Dick, looking up at her with eager eyes. “They are not, are they?”
“Yes,” cried Jeanne, indignantly. “They are true, Dick! As true as I live! Why should I tell you a falsehood?”
“Are they?” and Dick’s eyes lingered on his aunt’s questioningly.
“Dear boy,” said Madame, caressing him, “believe what the little one tells you. Is she not your sister? Poor Cherie would rather die than to say aught against her. Think what you like.”
“I knew it,” and Dick breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew that you could not be so wicked and cruel.”
“Dick, Dick,” cried his sister passionately. “You must believe me. It is true. All that I tell you and more. Oh, Dick, turn away from that wicked woman! Don’t let her touch you! I will take care of you.”
“I will leave you, Dick, my soldier boy,” said the lady holding him close to her. “Your sister can take care of you, as she says. There! I will go.”