"No!" answered Lena, indignantly. "How could I tell her such a thing?
And you know how you told me I must never, never tell."
"And you did not show her my letter?" asked the puzzled Percy, who
was by no means pleased, as may be imagined, by the knowledge that
one other, at least, must share the secret.
"No," repeated Lena, still more vexed that he should suppose her to
be capable of such an evasion, which to her sense of uprightness
would have been as bad as speaking a falsehood by word of mouth; "no,
of course I did not, that would have been telling her, would it not?
One can _do_ a falsehood as well as tell it," and although she
had intended no reflection upon her brother, no thrust at him, Percy
was ashamed as he remembered how often, during the last few months,
he had done this very thing; how he had shuffled and evaded, and
thought it no great harm as long as he did not put his falsehood into
actual words.
"Well, no one knows how thankful I am to you, Lena, dear," he said.
"What can I ever do for you?"
"Tell Uncle Horace. I wish, oh, I do _wish_ you would tell him,"
said his sister.
"Tell Uncle Horace; no, never!" exclaimed Percy. "I couldn't. Think
of that look in his eyes when he hears of anything he thinks shabby
or--well--dishonorable. He'd be ready to put me out of his house if
he heard about that letter, even though we didn't know what was in
it. I couldn't, Lena; I couldn't."
"I think it would be better for you," said his sister, "for Aunt May
knew about Hannah and Miss Trevor, and she is sure to have told him.
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