Agony lay very still, thinking.  Even if Mary had not mentioned the robin incident in this letter, she might in a later one; the danger was never really over.  And on the other hand, Jo Severance, dear Jo, who had become so fond of Agony in the last few weeks, would certainly tell Mary about the robin when she answered her letter.  Jo had already written it to her mother and to several friends, she had told her.  Jo never grew tired of talking about it, and displayed a touching pride in having Agony for an intimate friend.  Yes, without doubt Jo would write it to Mary, and then Mary would write back and tell the truth.  Agony grew hot and cold by turns as she lay there thinking of the certainty of exposure.  What a blind fool she had been.  If only she had told the story the minute she got home that day, instead of keeping it to herself, then the moment of temptation would never have come to her.  If only Mary hadn’t been called away just then!

Could she still take the story back, she wondered, and tell it as it really had been?  Her heart sank at the thought and her pride cried out against it.  No, she could never stand the disgrace.  But what if the truth were to leak out through Mary—­that would be infinitely worse.  Her thoughts went around in a torturing circle and brought her to no decision.  Should she make a clean breast of it now and have nothing more to fear, or should she take a chance on Jo’s never mentioning it to Mary?

While she was debating the question back and forth in her mind Bengal Virden came running into the tent.  Bengal was beginning to tag after Agony as she had formerly tagged after Mary Sylvester.  Agony often caught the younger girl’s eyes fastened upon her with an expression of worship that fairly embarrassed her.  It was the first real crush that a younger girl had ever had on Agony, and although Agony laughed about it to her friends, she still derived no small amount of satisfaction from it, and had resolved to be a real influence for good to stout, fly-away Bengal.

The girl came running in now with a leaf cup full of red, ripe raspberries in her hand, and laid it in Agony’s lap.  “I picked them all for you,” she remarked, looking at Agony with an adoring gaze.

“Oh, thank you,” said Agony, sitting up and fingering the tempting gift.  She selected a large ripe berry and put it into her mouth, giving an involuntary exclamation of pleasure at the fine, rich flavor of the fruit.  This, she reflected, was the reward of popularity—­the cream of all good things from the hands of her admirers.  Could she give it up—­could she bear to see their admiration turn to scorn?

“And Agony,” begged Bengal, “may I have a lock of your hair to keep?” The depths of adoration expressed in that request sent an odd thrill through Agony.  She knew then that she could not bear it to have Bengal be disappointed in her; could not let her know that she was only posing as a heroine.  The die was cast.  She would take her chance on no one’s ever finding it out.