"Why, Ellen," she said, "is it as bad as that? I didn't suppose you
really cared."
She clasped Ellen's slender waist closer and kissed her fervently.
Ellen coaxed two shining tears into sparkling prominence on her long
lashes.
"Oh, don't mind me, Fan," she murmured; "but I _can_ sympathize with
you, dear. I know _exactly_ how you feel--and to think it's the same
girl!"
Ellen giggled light-heartedly:
"Anyway, she can't marry both of them," she finished.
Fanny was looking away through the boles of the gnarled old trees,
her face grave and preoccupied.
"Perhaps I oughtn't to have told you," she said.
"Why, you haven't told me anything, yet," protested Ellen. "You're
the funniest girl, Fan! I don't believe you know how to--really
confide in anybody. If you'd tell me more how you feel about _him_,
you wouldn't care half so much."
Fanny winced perceptibly. She could not bear to speak of the
secret--which indeed appeared to be no secret--she strove daily to
bury under a mountain of hard work, but which seemed possessed of
mysterious powers of resurrection in the dark hours between sunset
and sunrise.
"But there's nothing to--to talk about, Ellen," she said; and in
spite of herself her voice sounded cold, almost menacing.
"Oh, very well, if you feel that way," retorted Ellen. "But I can
tell you one thing--or, I _might_ tell you something; but I guess I
won't."
"Please, Ellen,--if it's about--"
"Well, it is."
Fanny's eyes pleaded hungrily with the naughty Ellen.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192