I found Annie looking very like old Rain-in-the-Face. She was in a forlorn heap on the floor; her eyes red; her ripe-wheat hair all disheveled; and in her hand a crumpled letter. On the floor by her was an unopened box which had just come by parcels post.
Her "Come in" in answer to my knock had been more like a sob than an invitation to enter.
"What is it, dear Annie? Tweedles and I have just been talking about you and we wonder if you know how much we love you. Do you?"
"Oh, Page, I don't see how you can!"
"Well, we do, and I said I believed you loved us enough to trust us. I mean to understand that we could never hurt your feelings in any possible way, just because we'd rather be boiled alive than hurt you."
Annie looked up and smiled a rather watery smile, but a smile all the same.
"Now s'pose you trust me and tell me what is the matter. What are friends for if you can't tell them your troubles?"
"Oh, Page, I'd like to tell you, but it would seem so disloyal to my Father."
"You understand, Annie, that if you tell me anything it would be just like telling it to a Father Confessor. I mean I'd never breathe a word of it." It sounded as though I were full of curiosity, but while of course I did want to know, my reason for pressing Annie was that I felt she needed to let off steam, that is, her pent-up emotions.
"I know you are the best friend any girl ever had and I believe I will tell you all about everything."