“Oh, I guess you know well enough. It’s all very well to pretend you don’t, but I don’t believe you’re quite such a baby as you appear to be, after all.”
“But I don’t know, indeed I don’t,” protested Gretel. “I didn’t think I had done anything wrong, except—oh!” And Gretel stopped short, with a little frightened gasp, and some of the color went out of her face.
“Oh, no, you haven’t done anything wrong; of course not,” said Ada, sarcastically. “It wasn’t wrong to tell wicked stories to that brother of yours, and prejudice him against Mamma. You’re a mean little tell-tale, and you deserve to be severely punished.”
The color had all flown back into Gretel’s cheeks by this time, and though very much distressed, she was no longer frightened. Ada’s words had at least assured her that her first great fear was groundless.
“I didn’t tell my brother wicked stories,” she protested, indignantly. “I don’t know what you mean, Ada, I truly don’t.”
There was such a ring of truth in Gretel’s voice that Ada—who was not really an unkind girl at heart—was somewhat mollified.
“Well, you’ve made a lot of trouble, whether you meant to or not,” she said, with a sigh. “Mamma hasn’t closed her eyes all night, and she’s in an awful state this morning. Don’t you know it’s very mean to tell people’s private affairs to any one, even if he is your brother?”
“But I didn’t tell Mrs. Marsh’s private affairs to Percy,” cried Gretel, her voice beginning to tremble. “I don’t know her private affairs, so I couldn’t tell them, even if I wanted to. I didn’t tell Percy about anybody but just myself.”
Before Ada could answer Mrs. Marsh’s voice sounded down the hall.
“Ada, come here, I want to speak to you. Can’t you leave that child alone? I should think mischief enough had been done already.” And without another word, Ada turned away, slamming the door behind her.