“She made me give my word of honor not to tell what was said,” she announced to the palpitating Judy, “but she’s writing the note to Molly now; so go quickly and inform someone that Molly has no escort for the ball.”
Judy departed much mystified and Nance remained discreetly away from her own room until she perceived Frances steal down the hall, push a note under their door and then hurry back, bang her own door and lock it.
Then, after a moment’s grace, Nance marched boldly to their chamber. Molly was reading the note.
“What do you think, Nance?” she exclaimed with a tone of evident relief in her voice, “Frances Andrews can’t go to-night.”
“Indeed, and what reason does she give?” asked Nance, feeling very much like a conspirator now that she was obliged to face Molly.
“None. She simply says ‘I’m sorry I can’t go to-night. Hope you’ll enjoy it. F. A.’ How does she expect me to get there, I wonder, at the eleventh hour?”
Nance examined her finger nails attentively.
“Perhaps she’s seen to that,” she replied after a pause.
“Nance,” said Molly, presently, “I’m so relieved that I think I’ll have to ’fess up. It’s mean of me, I know, and I feel awfully ungenerous to be so glad. You see, nobody can ever tell what strange, freakish thing she’s going to do. Of course she was the witch. I knew it from the conscious look that came into her face when I told her about it afterwards.”
“The mistake she has made is being defiant instead of repentant,” said Nance. “Instead of trying to brazen it out, she ought to ‘walk softly,’ as the Bible says, and keep quiet. She is the most embittered soul I ever met in all my life. If hatred counted for much, her hatred for her own class would burn it to a cinder.”