“But I was not to tell any one,” she wailed, “and I should not have written to Marie. But Marie was so good, and I thought she ought to know. But now—oh, you cannot understand!” and she wept again, bewailing the lost note.
“I am sure,” insisted Dorothy, “It cannot do so much harm as you think, Miette. I will see Mrs. Pangborn myself—”
“Oh, please do not do that. Mrs. Pangborn was not to know,” sobbed the girl on the bed.
Neither Dorothy nor her chum knew what to say now. It was all very mysterious, and Dorothy wished ardently she had taken her friend’s advice and not gone in for the initiation.
But it was too late for regrets—it was time for action.
“Could you tell me in what way I could help you?” asked Dorothy, very gently.
“I can see no way. And, oh, I was so happy until that awful girl—Yes, it was she who did it all! She hates me! But why? What have I done?” and the little French girl continued to cry.
“Now, I’m going to get you a cup of chocolate,” said practical Rose-Mary, “and when you feel stronger you will see things in a different light.”
Then Dorothy was left alone with Miette. The girl pulled herself together and sat up.
“I would so like to tell you,” she began, “but I have been forbidden. Oh, if my own dear mother had not left me—” she sobbed, but tried bravely to restrain her tears. “You see, it is nothing so very wrong, only they—oh, I cannot tell you. I must do the best I can, and if I have to go away—then I must go!”