'About everything. I began with Rex; I told papa how his very sweetness and amiability made him weak in things; he so hated disappointing people, that he could not bring himself to say what he wished; and just now, after his illness and trouble, it seemed doubly hard to do it.' 'And what did he say to that?' 'He looked grieved; yes, I am sure he was grieved. He does not believe that Roy knows his own mind, or will ever do much good as an artist; but all he said was, "I understand--my own boy--afraid of disappointing his father. Well, well, the lad knows best what will make him happy."' 'And then you told him about Richard?' 'Yes,' catching her breath as though with a painful thought; 'when I got to Cardie, somehow the words seemed to come of themselves, and it was such a relief telling papa all I thought. It has been such a burden all this time, for I am sure no one but mamma ever guessed how unhappy Cardie really was.' 'You, who know him so well, could inflict this mortification on him--no, I did not mean to say that, you have suffered enough, my child; but did it not occur to you that you were betraying a sacred confidence?' 'Confidence, Aunt Milly!' 'Yes, Olive; your deep insight into your brother's character, and your very real affection for him, ought to have guarded you from this mistake. If you had read him so truly as to discover all this for yourself, you should not have imparted this knowledge without warning, knowing how much it would wound his jealous reticence. If you had waited, doubtless Richard's good sense would have induced him at last to confide in his father.' 'Not until it was too late--until he had worn himself out. He gets more jaded and weary every day, Aunt Milly.' Mildred shook her head. 'The golden rule holds good even here, "To do unto others as we would they should do unto us." How would you like Richard to retail your opinions and feelings, under the impression he owed you a duty?' 'Aunt Milly, indeed I thought I was acting for the best.' 'I do not doubt it, my child; the love that guided you was clearer than the wisdom; but what did Arnold--what did your father say?' 'Oh, Aunt Milly, he looked almost heart-broken; he covered his face with his hands, and I think he was praying; and yet he seemed almost as though he were talking to mamma. I am sure he had forgotten I was there. I heard him say something about having been selfish in his great grief; that he must have neglected his boy, or been hard and cruel to him, or he would never have so repelled his confidence. "Betha's boy, her darling," he kept saying to himself; "my poor Cardie, my poor lad," over and over again, till I spoke to him to rouse him; and then he said,'--here Olive faltered,--'"that I had been a good girl--a faithful little sister,--and that I must try and take her place, and remind them how good and loving she was." And then he broke down. Oh, Aunt Milly, it was so dreadful; and then I made him come back.'