"What is it?" asked Alma; then, for some reason, she colored and turned her eyes away.
"I know now where I saw that book myself, Alma," said Nancy.
"Nancy!" Alma's blue eyes now suddenly filled with tears. "Oh, Nancy—you won't say anything. No, no, you didn't see it. Please don't believe that of her."
"Two Sundays ago when I was talking to you—I noticed it in the bookcase in your room. I kept reading the titles on the books when I—you know the way you do when you're worried. It stood between a copy of 'Bryce's Commonwealth' and a French grammar——"
"Nancy, you mustn't say anything, do you hear?" insisted Alma, beseechingly.
"I won't say anything. But—but I'm going to—you go on to class. I tell you, I won't say anything. Oh, Alma, you darling! Go on to class, I say."
"Nancy, what are you going to do?" demanded Alma, as Nancy broke away from her and ran up the stairs again. "You aren't going to Miss Leland?"
"No, I'm not. There, isn't that the postman? You might as well see if there's anything for us before you go to French."
Alma walked down the hall toward the front door, where the maid was taking the noon mail from the postman. Nancy stood waiting, half-way up the stairs, evidently lost in thoughts which were not very pleasant, for her brown eyes sparkled with suppressed indignation and contempt, and once or twice she pressed her lips together tightly, as she always did when she was trying to make herself look calmer than she felt.
"Here's a letter from Mother," said Alma, coming back with an envelope in her hand. "I can't read it now, so you take it and save it for me." Nancy leaned over and took it from her.