“No, thank you,” she said, “I can not sit down. I only stopped to tell you that I have arranged with the publishers. They will keep the secret. I shall have rather a hard task arranging about the checks, because I fear it will involve a little deceit and I do not like deceit.”
Annie, as she spoke, looked straight at Margaret and there was something terrible in that clear look of unsoiled truth. Margaret put out a detaining hand.
“Sit down for a minute, please,” she said cringingly. “I want to explain?”
“There is nothing whatever to explain,” replied Annie. “I heard.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“I do not think,” said Annie, “that this is an ordinary offence about which to talk of forgiveness. I do pity you, Margaret, for I realise how dreadfully you must have wanted what did not belong to you.”
Margaret winced. “Well, if it is any satisfaction to you, I am realising nothing but misery from it,” she said in a low voice.
“I don't see how you can help that,” replied Annie simply. Then she went away.
It proved Margaret's unflinching trust in the girl and Annie's recognition of no possibility except that trust, that no request nor promise as to secrecy had been made. Annie, after she got home, almost forgot the whole for a time, since her Aunt Harriet, and Aunt Harriet was the sister who was subject to rose-colds, announced her determination to call at Mr. von Rosen's the next afternoon with Annie and see his famous collection.
“Of course,” said she, “the invitation was meant particularly for me, since I am one of his parishioners, and I think it will be improving to you, Annie, to view antiquities.”