“I couldn't let you go by, when it came to it, and Tom—”
“What, dear?”
“I did an awful mean thing: something I never was guilty of before. I—listened.”
“Well, I don't see what harm it did. You didn't hear much to your or your sisters' disadvantage, that I can remember. They kept calling you 'dear.'”
“Yes,” said Annie, quickly. Again, such was her love and thankfulness that a great wave of love and forgiveness for her sisters swept over her. Annie had a nature compounded of depths of sweetness; nobody could be mistaken with regard to that. What they did mistake was the possibility of even sweetness being at bay at times, and remaining there.
“You don't mean to speak to anybody else?” asked Tom.
“Not for a year, if I can avoid it without making comment which might hurt father.”
“Why, dear?”
“That is what I cannot tell you,” replied Annie, looking into his face with a troubled smile.
Tom looked at her in a puzzled way, then he kissed her.