Three Little Cousins Part 10

"Then she's a mean old thing, and not a bit like dear Aunt Ada. Do tell her, Mary."

"Oh, I can't, I can't," persisted Mary, terror again seizing her, "I am so afraid she will be vexed."

"Then let me tell."

"Oh, no, please. Wait a little longer. Perhaps the broach can be found. Oh, I am so miserable; Aunt Ada will think I am so careless and deceitful, and everything bad."

Molly now felt only a deep pity for the poor little sinner, and she began to kiss away the tears on Mary's cheeks. "Please don't be miserable," she begged. "I think maybe you ought to have told at first, but I see how you felt, and I'll not be horrid to you any more, Mary. I'll stand up for you straight along, and when you want Aunt Ada to know I will go with you to tell her."

Mary really began to feel comforted. "I think you are a perfect duck, Molly," she said. "Fancy after all I have been doing, for you to be so kind. But please don't tell Polly; I know she doesn't like me."

"She did like you," said Molly truthfully, "until--until we heard that you had not been where Aunt Ada thought you were."

"And she thinks I am deceitful; so I have been, and I hate myself for it."

"But Polly doesn't know why you did it."

"Then don't tell her; I'd rather anything than that."

"Don't you want Polly to like you?"

"Yes, but I don't want her to know I lost the brooch."

It was useless to try to rid poor Mary's mind of the one idea, and at last Molly gave up trying, but she did not leave her forlorn little cousin, and Polly, in the next room while she wondered what could be keeping Molly, fell asleep in the midst of her wondering.

_CHAPTER VII_

_In Elton Woods_

Polly was all curiosity the next morning. "Why in the world didn't you sleep with me?" she asked, sitting up in bed as Molly came in from the next room.

"Because Mary needed me. She was in awful trouble," replied Molly soberly.

"What was it?" asked Polly eagerly.

"I can't tell you."

"I think that's real mean," returned Polly indignantly. "You're just a turncoat, Molly Shelton; first you're friends with me, and then you're thick as can be with Mary."

"I'm not a turncoat," retorted Molly, angry at being called names.

"She's as much my cousin as you are, and I reckon if you were way off from your mother and had a dreadful thing happen that you couldn't talk to her about, you'd want some one to be a little sorry for you."

"I think a dreadful thing is happening to me when you talk that way to me," said Polly, melting into tears. "I just wish I had never come here, I do so, and I reckon I want my mother as much as Mary does hers.

I am going to tell Uncle d.i.c.k how you act, so I am."

"Oh, please don't tell him!" exclaimed Molly, alarmed. "We don't want any one to know."

This but whetted Polly's curiosity. "I think you might tell me," she pouted.

"I can't. I promised I wouldn't. You shall know as soon as Mary says I may tell."

"Oh, I don't care then. Keep your old secrets if you want to," and Polly flounced out of bed and began vigorously to prepare for her bath.

For the rest of the time before breakfast she did not speak a word to Molly who felt that she was indeed between two fires. She had promised not to tell Aunt Ada and if Polly were to tell Uncle d.i.c.k that morning that something was wrong, it might add to Mary's troubles. She pondered the matter well while she was dressing, and by the time she had tied on her hair ribbon she had concluded to forestall Polly by telling her Uncle d.i.c.k something of what was the matter. She decided that she could do so without betraying Mary's confidence. So she stepped down-stairs ahead of Polly and joined her Uncle d.i.c.k who was energetically walking up and down the porch.

"h.e.l.lo, Mollykins!" he cried. "I'm getting up an appet.i.te for breakfast. Come and join me."

"As if you ever had to do anything to get up an appet.i.te," retorted Molly, slipping her hand under his arm. "Oh, you take such long steps I have to take two to keep up with you."

"So much the better, then you work twice as hard and can have twice as much. I peeped into the kitchen, but Luella looked as fierce as a sitting hen, and I didn't dare to stay; however, I know we are to have hot rolls for breakfast; I saw them."

"The pocketbook kind, with the lovely brown crust all around? Good! I certainly want a double appet.i.te for those. Uncle d.i.c.k, you oughtn't to tell other people's secrets, ought you?"

"No-o, not usually. Whose secret is burning in your breast?"

"Why--promise not to tell a soul."

"Is it a murder?"

"No, of course not."

"Is it grand larceny?"

"I don't know what that is."

"It is stealing something worth while, not like a loaf of bread nor a pin, nor anything of that kind. You know the copy-book says: 'It is a sin to steal a pin.'"

"Is it a sin to lose a pin?"

"Why, no, not unless it is a breastpin or a scarf-pin and you wilfully throw it to the fishes."

Molly drew a sigh of relief. "Suppose you lose something that belongs to some one else; is that a sin?"

"Why no, it is a misfortune, not a crime. You don't do it on purpose, you see, and in fact I think the loser generally feels worse than the one the thing belongs to. What have you lost? Not my favorite scarf-pin, I hope. Have you been using it to pin rags around your doll?"

"Oh, Uncle d.i.c.k, of course I haven't. I was only asking, just because I wanted to know."

"As a seeker after ethical truths. It does you credit, Miss Shelton.

You will probably join a college settlement when you are older, or at least write a paper on moral responsibilities."

"Oh, Uncle d.i.c.k, you do use such silly long words."

"I forget, when you tackle these abstruse subjects. I will come down from my lofty perch, Molly. What more can your wise uncle tell you?"

"If a person loses something very costly, something that has been lent to her, ought she to pay it back?"

"It is generally supposed to be the proper thing to replace it, but half the world doesn't do it; sometimes because they can't and sometimes because they don't want to. Then, sometimes the one to whom the thing belonged, insists upon not having it replaced, and would feel very uncomfortable if it were, though, from the standpoint of strict honesty, one should always make good any borrowed article whether lost, strayed or stolen."