"I—I may not see you until to-night," she said, slipping the letter into the pocket of her skirt. "You know you can trust me to hold my tongue, well—quite as well as she can, and she holds hers very well indeed. Do you mind being stared at and whispered about?"
Alma only smiled, then, with a little toss of her head, made a right about face, marched off, chin up, to brave the battery of glancing eyes and whispering tongues alone.
CHAPTER XIII
NANCY HAS A GREAT ADVENTURE
There was no doubt whatever in Nancy's mind that it was Mildred who had cheated in the examination. But whether Mildred had deliberately left the book on Alma's desk, or whether she had simply forgotten it, she did not know. The fact remained, however, that so far Mildred had made no effort to clear Alma of the suspicion, and knowing Mildred's nature as she did, Nancy was not inclined to think that Mildred would ever do so of her own accord. Nancy was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt so far as believing that she had not intentionally thrown Alma into such a damaging position. In the first place, she had no motive for injuring Alma, and in the second place, she ran a very great risk of discovery herself. Leaving the whys and wherefores, Nancy regarded the simple fact; that having thus injured Alma, Mildred was not going to try to clear her, and pay the penalty herself. The thought that most wounded Nancy was that Alma was under obligations to the girl who had treated her so badly. The handsome fur neck-piece Mildred had "lent" her, was not yet paid for, and Nancy shrank from the idea of her sister's owing money to her. She had, of course, not mentioned this to Alma, although it had been the first thought that sprang into her own head, when she first became certain that Mildred was the culprit. It would have troubled Alma, who was already troubled enough, and she could have done nothing about it.
"I've got to get that money somehow," Nancy said to herself grimly. "I can write to Mother for part of it—about half, perhaps, but the other half I've got to get myself." Naturally, her first idea was to pocket her pride, and to ask her Uncle Thomas for the money. Not even that would hurt her so much as the thought of owing it to Mildred; but then she dismissed this plan from her mind. It was impossible; it would be a breach of their terms of friendship, for one thing, and for another, she felt that to explain to him her reasons for wanting it would be unjust to Alma.
While she was turning one plan after another over in her mind, she absently took her mother's letter from her pocket, and slit the envelope open with a hairpin. She glanced almost carelessly at the lines, written in Mrs. Prescott's pointed, flourishing hand, then all at once the meaning of the first sentence fixed her wandering attention.
"MY DARLING, DARLING LITTLE DAUGHTERS:
"I can hardly bring myself to write this letter. You don't know how hard it is for me—but I deserve the pain and humiliation. I am a very foolish woman, but, oh, my dears, I have made my mistakes only in trying to help you both. And now, what have I done to you? There was no one to advise me, and I know nothing whatever about business, but it seemed so perfectly practical, so absolutely sure."