He still felt that
curious mixture of shame and anger burning hotly within.
"Just why are you telling me all this?" he demanded roughly.
She returned his look quietly.
"Because," she said, "you have been trying to guess my secret for a
long time and you have succeeded; haven't you?"
He was speechless.
"You have been wondering about me, all along. I could see that, of
course. I suppose everybody in Brookville has been wondering and--and
talking. I meant to be frank and open about it--to tell right out who
I was and what I came to do. But--somehow--I couldn't.... It didn't
seem possible, when everybody--you see I thought it all happened so
long ago people would have forgotten. I supposed they would be just
glad to get their money back. I meant to give it to them--all, every
dollar of it. I didn't care if it took all I had.... And then--I
heard you last night when you crossed the library. I hoped--you would
ask me why--but you didn't. I thought, first, of telling Mrs.
Daggett; she is a kind soul. I had to tell someone, because he is
coming home soon, and I may need--help."
Her eyes were solemn, beseeching, compelling.
His anger died suddenly, leaving only a sort of indignant pity for
her unfriended youth.
"You are--" he began, then stopped short. A painter was swiftly
descending his ladder, whistling as he came.
"My name," she said, without appearing to notice, "is Lydia Orr
Bolton. No one seems to remember--perhaps they didn't know my
mother's name was Orr.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148