Beatrice felt that her heart was beating. She had taken a desperate resolution during her six miles' solitary ride; she had determined to take her uncle into her confidence. He had always been indulgent and kind to her; perhaps he would not view her sin in so heinous a light as her mother would; and who knows? perhaps he would help her.
"Uncle Tom, I'm in dreadful trouble, and I want to tell you about it," she began, trembling.
"I'm very sorry, Pussy; what is it?"
"I did a shocking, dreadful thing when I was in London. I went to a young man's rooms, and got shut up in his bedroom."
"The deuce you did!" says Tom Esterworth, opening his eyes.
"Yes," continues Beatrice, desperately, and crimson with shame and confusion; "and the worse of it is, that I left my sunshade in the sitting-room; and papa came in, and, of course, he did not know it was mine, and—and—he thinks—he thinks——"
"That's the best joke I ever heard in my life!" cries Mr. Esterworth, laying his head back in the chair and laughing aloud.
"Uncle Tom!" Beatrice could hardly believe her ears.
"Good lord, what a situation for a comedy!" cries her uncle, between the outbursts of his mirth. "Upon my word, Pussy, you are a good plucked one; there isn't much Miller blood in your veins. You are an Esterworth all over."
"But, uncle, indeed, it's no laughing matter."