“If he tells you?” Miss Lucretia gasped. Here was a courage of which she had not reckoned. “Do you think he will tell you?”
“He will tell me, and I shall believe him, Miss Lucretia.”
“You are a remarkable girl, Cynthia,” said Miss Lucretia, involuntarily. Then she paused for a moment. “Suppose he tells you they are true? You surely can't live with him again, Cynthia.”
“Do you suppose I am going to desert him, Miss Lucretia?” she asked. “He loves me, and—and I love him.” This was the first time her voice had faltered. “He kept my father from want and poverty, and he has brought me up as a daughter. If his life has been as you say, I shall make my own living!”
“How?” demanded Miss Lucretia, the practical part of her coming uppermost.
“I shall teach school. I believe I can get a position, in a place where I can see him often. I can break his heart, Miss Lucretia, I—I can bring sadness to myself, but I will not desert him.”
Miss Lucretia stared at her for a moment, not knowing what to say or do. She perceived that the girl had a spirit as strong as her own: that her plans were formed, her mind made up, and that no arguments could change her.
“Why did you come to me?” she asked irrelevantly.
“Because I thought that you would have read the articles, and I knew if you had, you would have taken the trouble to inform yourself of the world's opinion.”
Again Miss Lucretia stared at her.