"About what, daughter?"
"Papa, s'pose—s'pose I'd done something naughty, and—and it would grieve dear mamma to hear it; ought I to tell her and—and make her sorry?"
"My dear little daughter," he said bending down to look with grave, tender eyes into the troubled face, "never, never conceal anything from your mother; it is not safe for you, pet; and she would far rather bear the pain of knowing. If our children knew how much, how very much we both love them, they would never want to hide anything from us."
"Papa, I don't; but—somebody says it would be selfish to hurt mamma so."
"The selfishness was in doing the naughty thing, not in confessing it.
Go, my child, and tell mamma all about it."
He hastened away, and Violet crept back to the drawing-room.
The other children were leaving it. "Come, Vi," they said, "we're going for a walk."
"Thank you, I don't wish to go this time," she answered with gravity.
"I've something to attend to."
"What a grown up way of talking you have, you little midget," laughed Meta. Then putting her lips close to Vi's ear, "Violet Travilla," she whispered, "don't you tell tales, or I'll never, never play with you again as long as I live."
"My mamma says it's wicked to say that;" returned Vi, "and I don't tell tales."