“I—I’m afraid I’ve made rather a mess,” Jane confessed, faintly.
“Oh, I’m quite sure of that. And you won’t catch me coming to the rescue again. Here I am and here I stay until I go home under Uncle Peter’s sheltering wing. Well, what have you done?”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“Of course not. Your kind never do. They’ll have a revolution in this town, if they keep you here until you’ve grown up—which I doubt very much.” Then, seeing that she was really distressed, he patted her hand, and said, consolingly, “There, tell your Aunt Rebecca what you’ve done—I’ll help you out, if I must.”
“No one can help me,” said Jane, darkly.
“Is it murder this time? Well, tell me anyhow. I’m always prepared for the worst with you.”
“Don’t tease, Paul. I sent her sleigh away,” said Jane, with the calm of deep trouble.
“You—what?”
“I said—I sent Mrs. Deacon’s sleigh away.”
There was a pause, during which Paul made every effort to guess what earthly designs Jane had had in perpetrating such a peculiar deed. Then he gave up.