CHAPTER XXVII
“THEN, HEIGH-HO, THE MOLLY!”
“Charlotte!” said I, taking in a sudden pity a step nearer and holding out my hand; but she only snatched her arm away fretfully and cried the more bitterly.
“Has your father been speaking unkindly to you?” I asked her, being much surprised.
She shook her head, and a wet handkerchief plashed on my hand like a sob as she shook it out.
“What is it, then?” I asked, more and more amazed at the turn things were taking. Never had I thought for a moment that Charlotte would not be as pleased and happy to have me as I was the reverse.
“Oh,” she burst out at last, sobbing between each hurried phrase, “I don’t blame you, Duncan. It’s all that horrid old cat, Miss Seraphina—Diabolina, the girls call her—she writes everything we do to our people at home. She’s always writing, and she spies on us, too, and listens—opens our letters! She has brought all this on me——”
“Brought what on you?” I inquired blankly.