"I do. Tell me."
"Perhaps I oughtn't to. It's mother's secret."
"Suppose I know all about it."
"You can't! How can you?"
"Lie still," pushing her back gently among the pillows, "and let me tell you."
"I thought I was to tell you."
"A while ago the postman brought me a note from your mother. She told me that she had confessed to you something she told me last summer."
"Oh," exclaimed Marjorie, covering her face with both hands, "isn't it too dreadful!"
"I think your mother saw clearly that she had taken your life into her own hands without waiting to let God work for you and in you. I assured her that I knew all about that dark time of yours, and she wept some very sorrowful tears to think how heartbroken you would be if you knew. Perhaps she thought you ought to know it; she is not one to spare herself; she is even harder upon herself than upon other sinners."
"But, Aunt Prue, what ought I to do now? What can I do to make it right?"