“If’t had not been for coming away, I—that is—” The girl hesitated and then said, “Tibbie?”
“What?”
“Dost think—I mean—” The girl drew her bedfellow closer, and in an almost inaudible voice asked, “Would it be right, think you—when I go back, you know—to—to encourage him—that is, to give him a chance to tell me—so as to find out?”
The referee of this important question was silent for long enough to give a quality of consideration to her opinion, and then decided, “I think thee shouldst. ’T is a question that thou hast a right to know about.” Having given the ruling, this most upright judge changed her manner from one conveying thought to one suggesting eagerness, and asked, “Oh, Janice, if he does—if thee finds out anything, wilt thee tell it me?”
“Ought I?” asked Janice, divided between the pleasure of monopolising a secret and the enjoyment of sharing it.
“Surely thee ought,” cried Tabitha. “After telling me so much, thou shouldst—for Charles’ sake. Otherwise I might misjudge him.”
“Then I’ll tell you everything,” cried Janice, clearly happy in the decision.
“And if he does love you, Jan?” suggestively remarked Tibbie.
“’T will be vastly exciting,” said Janice. “You know, Tibbie, it frightens me a little, for he’s just the kind of man to do something desperate.”
“And—and you would n’t—”