“Oh, no!” burst from Fanny’s lips. “It wasn’t that.”
“Why, what do you know about Wesley Elliot and Lydia Orr?” inquired Ellen vindictively. “You’re a whole lot like Jim—as close-mouthed as a molasses jug, when you don’t happen to feel like talking.... It isn’t fair,” she went on crossly. “I tell you everything—every single thing; and you just take it all in without winking an eyelash. It isn’t fair!”
“Oh, Ellen, please don’t—I can’t bear it from you!”
Fanny’s proud head drooped to her friend’s shoulder, a stifled sob escaped her.
“There now, Fan; I didn’t mean a word of it! I’m sorry I told you about him—only I thought he looked so kind of cut up over something that maybe— Honest, Fan, I don’t believe he likes her.”
“You don’t know,” murmured Fanny, wiping her wet eyes. “I didn’t tell you she came to see me.”
“She did!”
“Yes; it was after we had all been there, and mother was going on so about the furniture. It all seemed so mean and sordid to me, as if we were trying to—well, you know.”
Ellen nodded:
“Of course I do. That’s why you wouldn’t let her have your furniture. I gloried in your spunk, Fan.”