"Oh, my dear, my dear! You must tell your father."
"My father?" She laughed with terror.
Then Miss Lydia Sampson did an impossible thing—judging from Old Chester's knowledge of her character. She said, "He's got to know or I won't help you."
Mary's recoil showed how completely, poor child! she had always had her own way; to be crossed now by this timid old maid was like going head-on into a gray mist and finding it a stone wall. There was a tingling silence. "Then I'll kill myself," she said.
Miss Lydia gripped her small, work-worn hands together, but said nothing.
"Oh, please help me!" Mary said.
"I will—if you'll tell your father or Doctor Lavendar. I don't care which."
"Neither!" said the girl. She got on her feet and stood looking down at little shabby Miss Lydia sitting on the step with her black frizette tumbling forward over one frightened blue eye. Then she covered her face with those soft, trembling hands, all dimpled across the knuckles.
"Carl wanted to tell. He said, 'Let's tell people I was a scoundrel—and stand up to it.' And I said, 'Carl, I'll die first!' And I will, Miss Lydia. I'll die rather than have it known. Nobody must know—ever."
Miss Lydia shook her head. "Somebody besides me must know." Then very faintly she said, "I'll tell your father." There was panic in her voice, but Mary's voice, from behind the dimpled hands, was shrill with panic: