“No, I don't,” persisted Evelyn. “Maybe it's wicked, but I don't. I love papa as well as I do you, but I don't love mamma so well. Mamma gets me pretty things to wear, and she smiles at me, but I don't love her so much. I can't help it.”
“That is a naughty little girl,” said Maria.
“I can't help it,” said Evelyn. “Mamma can't love anybody as hard as I can. I can love anybody so hard it makes me shake all over, and I feel ill, but mamma can't. I love you so, Maria, that I don't feel well.”
“Nonsense!” said Maria, but she kissed Evelyn again.
“I don't—honest,” said Evelyn. Then she added, after a second's pause, “If I tell you something, won't you tell mamma—honest?”
“I can't promise if I don't know what it is,” said Maria, with her school-teacher manner.
“It isn't any harm, but mamma wouldn't understand. She never felt so, and she wouldn't understand. You won't tell her, will you, sister?”
“No, I guess not,” said Maria.
“Promise.”
“Well, I won't tell her.”