"
He got hastily to his feet: her look, her voice--the useless smart of
it all was swiftly growing unbearable.
"You must wait--I must think!" he said unsteadily. "You ought not to
have told me."
"Do you think I should have told the minister, instead?" she asked
rather piteously. "He has been very kind; but somehow--"
"What! Wesley Elliot?"
His face darkened.
"Thank heaven you did not tell him! I am at least no--"
He checked himself with an effort.
"See here," he said: "You--you mustn't speak to any one of what you
have told me--not for the present, anyway. I want you to promise me."
Her slight figure sagged wearily against the back of her chair. She
was looking up at him like a child spent with an unavailing passion
of grief.
"I have promised that so many times," she murmured: "I have concealed
everything so long--it will be easier for me."
"It will be easier for you," he agreed quickly; "and--perhaps better,
on the whole."
"But they will not know they are being paid--they won't understand--"
"That makes no difference," he decided. "It would make them, perhaps,
less contented to know where the money was coming from. Tell me, does
your servant--this woman you brought from Boston; does she know?"
"You mean Martha? I--I'm not sure. She was a servant in my uncle's
home for years. She wanted to live with me, so I sent for her. I
never spoke to her about--father. She seems devoted to me. I have
thought it would be necessary to tell her--before-- He is coming in
September.
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