"No good, I am afraid. Keith, you'll be a little sorry to have me gone? Just a little! Nobody else minds." "Father does." "No; not now. He would have minded—once." "Father minds!" positively. "Mamsie doesn't. And of course I do. I should just think so. I shall count and count the days till you come back. How long will you be? More than a month! Oh, I say, that's too horrid! . . . Lettice, I've a great mind to tell you something! It's such a shame!—And I don't see why I shouldn't!—Only—you must promise you won't tell anybody else! Not a single person." "Why?" "Oh, because I couldn't tell you, without. And I have nobody else to say it to. I want to say it to somebody. Promise, won't you—like a dear old girl!" She could not withstand the coaxing affectionate manner: and his complaint of "nobody else to say it to," appealed to her own loneliness. The pretty boyish face looked up into hers. "Let me tell you," he entreated. "Do, Lettice. It's so horrid not to have a fellow to speak to; and I shan't when you're gone. Only you've got to promise most faithfully that you'll never say it to anybody else—not to anybody! And more particularly, not to let Mamsie know." "I'll do anything you like, so long as it isn't wrong—Yes, I promise not to repeat it to any one, without your leave, unless it is something that I ought to speak out about for somebody else's sake. And then you must give me leave." His hand came over her mouth. "But it isn't! It isn't! It won't hurt anybody, except you." "Oh, then that does not matter. I can't have much more to bear than I have had lately. What is it?" "You promise not to tell?" "Yes." "Promise faithfully!" "So long as it is right." "Not to tell Mamsie—" "No." "Or anybody?" "Not unless you let me." He glanced at the door apprehensively, pressed nearer, and whispered— "Mamsie put that bank-note into your box herself!" CHAPTER XV. A CRASH! LETTICE could not control her start. Every pulse in her body seemed to leap with the shock. For some seconds she uttered no sound. At first she dared not let herself speak. She could only sit motionless, holding back the burning words which crowded to her lips; while the boy stared at her with half-frightened eyes. Then she said in a muffled voice— "What makes you think so?" "I know she did." "How do you know?" "I saw her." "And you never said a word! Never a word!—To clear me!" "Lettice—I couldn't! How could I?" She felt the force of the remark. How could he indeed? The marvel was, not that he had not spoken earlier, but that he had spoken now. "Yet, have I not a right to be cleared?" Lettice asked of herself, in a tumult of agitation. "Am I to bear this always—because Keith must shield her?" It seemed too hard—too much to expect. "I have promised; but I could make Keith give way. I could make him!" came next in the rush of thought.