“And I hope you never will. Either confess, or post it at once, or never call me your friend any more.”
“Oh, you need not be hot, Amy; you donʼt understand the circumstances. I know that she is playing a nasty game; and I need not have any scruples with her, after what I caught her doing. Twice she has been at my desk, my own new desk Uncle Cradock gave me, where I put all the letters and relics that were found on my dear, dear father.” Here Eoa burst out crying, and Amy came near again and kissed her.
“Darling, I did not mean to be cross; if the wretch would do such a thing as that, it justifies almost anything.”
“And what do you think I did?” said Eoa, half crying, and half laughing: “I set a fishhook with a spring to it, so that the moment she lifted the cover, the barb would go into her hand; and the next day she had a bad finger, and said that little Flore bit it by accident while she was feeling her tooth, which is loose. I should like to have seen her getting the barb out of her nasty little velvet paw.”
“I am quite surprised,” cried Amy; “and we all call you so simple—a mere child of nature! If so, nature is up to much more than we give her credit for. And pray, what is your next device?”
“Oh, nothing at all, till she does something. I am quits with her now; and I cannot scheme as she does.”
Suddenly Amy put both her hands on Eoaʼs graceful shoulders, and poured the quick vigour of English eyes into the fathomless lustre of darkly–fringed Oriental orbs.
“You will not tell me a story, dear, if I ask you very particularly?”
“I never tell stories to any one; you might know that by this time. At any rate, not to my friends.”
“No, I donʼt think you would. Now, do you think that Mrs. Corklemore is at the bottom of this vile thing?”