‘My dear!’—his voice and hand shook—‘is that your doing?’
‘Of course it is!’ interrupted Nora passionately. ‘Look at her, father! How dared you, Connie, do such a thing without a word to father! It’s a shame—a disgrace! We could have found a way out—we could!’
And the poor child, worn out with anxiety and lack of sleep, and in her sensitive pride and misery ready to turn on Connie and rend her, for having dared thus to play Lady Bountiful without warning or permission, sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and burst out sobbing.
Connie handed back the letter, and hung her head. ‘Won’t you—won’t you let the person—who—sent the money remain unknown, Uncle Ewen?—as they wished to be?’
Uncle Ewen sat down before his writing-table and he also buried his face in his hands. Connie stood between them—as it were a prisoner at the bar—looking now very white and childish.
‘Dear Uncle Ewen⸺’
‘How did you guess?’ said Nora vehemently, uncovering her face—‘I never said a word to you!’
Connie gave a tremulous laugh.
‘Do you think I couldn’t see—that you were all dreadfully unhappy about something? I—I made Alice tell me⸺’
‘Alice is a sieve!’ cried Nora. ‘I knew, Father, we could never trust her.’