She sat down on a stool at Grace’s feet and drew the girl’s hands into her own.
“Poor dear heart,” she murmured softly. “It’s an awful big old world and little girls do sometimes get hurt—and lost. Maybe you’d like me to call the car and take you for a drive.”
“No; I want to tell you; I’ve got to tell you. But I’m afraid if I do——”
“You couldn’t tell me anything that would make me stop loving you,” Miss Reynolds replied gently....
Grace spared herself in nothing. She told the whole story, told it as a child might confess a grievous fault at a mother’s knee, described the spirit of revolt in which she had thought to ignore the old barriers, scorned the safeguards that had offered protection, exulted in her freedom. And now, appalled by the consequences of her treason she found herself defenceless, groping for the support of the very wall that she had contemptuously disregarded. Her day of rebellion was past; she was now eager to be received again into the ancient citadel.
“I think,” she said finally, “that that’s all.”
Then for the first time Miss Reynolds looked up at her. Her eyes were wet.
“Dear little girl,” she began and then was silent for a time, gently stroking the girl’s hands.
“I guessed there was something wrong, of course,” she went on, “when I met you in the hall that day. When I went in I saw right away that my interruption was unfortunate. But Mrs. Trenton very calmly introduced me to her husband. We talked a moment and he left. As he went out he merely bowed to her without saying anything. He struck me as being a gentleman—none of the look of a dissolute person, certainly a handsome man—a high-bred look and air.”
“Oh, tell me you saw the fineness, the nobility in him! I couldn’t bear to have you hate him!”