"Nay, Mary," said Esther, rather reproachfully, "I am not so bad as
that. O Mary, you cannot think I would do that, whatever I may be."
The tears sprang to her eyes at the idea that she was suspected of
being one who would help to inform against an old friend.
Mary caught her sad and upbraiding look.
"No! I know you would not tell, aunt. I don't know what I say, I am
so shocked. But say you will not tell. Do."
"No, indeed I willn't tell, come what may."
Mary sat still looking at the writing, and turning the paper round
with careful examination, trying to hope, but her very fears belying
her hopes.
"I thought you cared for the young man that's murdered," observed
Esther, half-aloud; but feeling that she could not mistake this
strange interest in the suspected murderer, implied by Mary's
eagerness to screen him from anything which might strengthen
suspicion against him. She had come, desirous to know the extent of
Mary's grief for Mr. Carson, and glad of the excuse afforded her by
the important scrap of paper. Her remark about its being Jem's
handwriting, she had, with this view of ascertaining Mary's state of
feeling, felt to be most imprudent the instant after she had uttered
it; but Mary's anxiety that she should not tell was too great, and
too decided, to leave a doubt as to her interest for Jem.
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