“What shall we do?”
“At present, nothing. ‘Sufficient,’ Mrs. Peddar, ‘unto the day is the evil thereof.’”
“Do you think she knows?”
“Just now, I am sure that she does not.”
She came closer, speaking almost in a whisper. Her lips were twitching. I have seldom seen a woman so disturbed.
“Do you think—she did it?”
“Mrs. Peddar! I have not yet found the key to the puzzle; but I am going to look for it, and I, or some one else, will find it soon. And of this I am certain now, that that child—she’s little more than a child in years, and, at present, she’s as helpless as any child could be—has had, of her own initiative, no hand or finger in this matter; she is as innocent, and as blameless, as you or I. She has suffered, but she has not sinned.”
“I hope so, I am sure.”
“Your hope is on a safe foundation. There is one thing which you might do—keep your own counsel. Don’t tell all the world that you have a visitor; and, in particular, tell no one how that visitor came to you.”
“I’d rather she never had come. I—I’m beginning to wish that I’d never taken her in.”