Rosie’s eyes sought the floor, while her cheeks burned with blushes. She had not thought “mamma” knew any thing about her wrong doing, yet certainly she must, else why was her look so grieved and reproving.
Neither spoke for a moment, then, sighing deeply, Elsie said, “Can it be true that my dear, youngest daughter has been guilty of fraud and deception?”
“Who told—why do you have such an idea, mamma?” stammered Rosie in confusion. “I—I never thought you’d believe any thing so bad of me!” and she burst into a perfect passion of tears and sobs; a most unusual thing for her.
“O Rosie, my dear child,” her mother answered in tones tremulous with grief and affection, “I do not want to believe it; I can hardly bear to do so, and yet I must fear it is true till I hear the assurance from your own lips that it is not.”
“Mamma, who has been carrying tales about me to you?” cried Rosie with great show of indignation, “I did not think any body would be so mean; no, not even Lulu!”
“Rosie! Rosie!” exclaimed her mother in a tone that, for her, was very severe, “How can you so wrong Lulu? She is passionate, but I have never known her to be guilty of meanness. I have heard nothing from her to your discredit; but I did overhear a little talk between some of the others about your having cheated in a game, or perhaps more than one, and growing angry and forsaking their company, when accused of it.”
“Well, mamma, hadn’t I a right to be indignant at such an accusation!”
“Not if it were just and true, my daughter.” There was no response to the half questioning rejoinder and after waiting a moment, Elsie asked, “Was it true, Rosie?”
“Mamma, why do you—how can you ask me such insulting questions?” sobbed Rosie, hiding her face in her hands while a crimson tide mounted to her very hair.
“It pains me more than I can express to do so,” sighed her mother; “but if conscious of innocence, my dear child, say so at once, and your mother will believe you.” She paused and waited for an answer.