"And when you come back you'll bring--_It_ with you. And you'll say you've adopted it. You'll say it's the child of a friend." Miss Lydia was silent. "If you won't help me," Mary burst out, "I'll--" "Does anybody know?" said Miss Lydia. "No." "Oh, my dear, my dear! You must tell your father." "My _father_?" She laughed with terror. Then Miss Lydia Sampson did an impossible thing--judging from Old Chester's knowledge of her character. She said, "He's got to know or I won't help you." Mary's recoil showed how completely, poor child! she had always had her own way; to be crossed now by this timid old maid was like going head-on into a gray mist and finding it a stone wall. There was a tingling silence. "Then I'll kill myself," she said. Miss Lydia gripped her small, work-worn hands together, but said nothing. "Oh, please help me!" Mary said. "I will--if you'll tell your father or Doctor Lavendar. I don't care which." "Neither!" said the girl. She got on her feet and stood looking down at little shabby Miss Lydia sitting on the step with her black frizette tumbling forward over one frightened blue eye. Then she covered her face with those soft, trembling hands, all dimpled across the knuckles. "Carl wanted to tell. He said, 'Let's tell people I was a scoundrel--and stand up to it.' And I said, 'Carl, I'll die first!' And I will, Miss Lydia. I'll die rather than have it known. Nobody must know--ever." Miss Lydia shook her head. "Somebody besides me must know." Then very faintly she said, "_I'll_ tell your father." There was panic in her voice, but Mary's voice, from behind the dimpled hands, was shrill with panic: "You mustn't! Oh, you promised not to tell!" Miss Lydia went on, quietly, "He and I will decide what to do." "No, no!" Mary said. "He'll kill Carl!" "I shouldn't think Carl would mind," said Miss Lydia. The girl dropped down again on the step. "Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do--what shall I do? He'll hate me." "He'll be very, very unhappy," said Miss Lydia; "but he'll know what must be done. I don't. And he'll forgive you." "He won't forgive Carl! Father never forgives. He says so! And if he won't forgive Carl he mustn't forgive me!" She hid her face. There was a long silence. Then she said, in a whisper, "When will you . . . tell him?" "To-night." Again she cringed away. "Not to-night! Please not to-night. Oh, you promised you wouldn't tell! I can't bear-- Let me think. I'll write to Carl. No! No! Father _mustn't_ know!" "Listen," said Lydia Sampson; "you must get married right off. You can't wait until December. That's settled. But your father must manage it so that nobody will suspect--anything. Understand?" "I mean to do that, anyway, but--"