As she went on, my heart fell lower and lower—for a moment or two I could not speak. All sorts of dreadful fears and imaginings began to fill my mind; perhaps my parents had already got that terrible illness Harriet spoke of, perhaps one or both of them had already died. I could have screamed aloud. I felt I could not bear it—I must write to mamma a letter that nobody should read. I must see somebody who would tell me the truth—Haddie, perhaps, knew more than I did. If I could go to him! But I had no money and no idea of the way, and Miss Aspinall would never, never let me even write to ask him. Besides, I was in disgrace, very likely they would not believe me if I told them why I was so miserable; they had already said I told stories, and then I must not get Harriet into trouble.
What should I do? If only Miss Fenmore had still been there, I felt she would have been sorry for me, but there was nobody—nobody.
I turned my face away from my little companion, and buried it in the pillow. Harriet grew frightened.
"What are you doing, Gerry?" she said. "Why don't you speak? Are you going to sleep or are you crying? Very likely your papa and mamma won't get that illness. I wish I hadn't told you."
"Never mind," I said. "I'm going to sleep."
"And you won't tell Emma?" Harriet repeated.
"Of course not—don't you believe my word? Do you too think that I tell stories?"
I tried to get rid of my misery by letting myself grow angry.
"You're very cross," said Harriet; but all the same I think she understood me better than she could express, for she kissed me and said, "Do go to sleep—don't be so unhappy."