“He’d do that in any case.”

“Still—­I’ll have asked him.”

But it seemed that Pinkney was in no mood to think of cricket, and they had to be content with begging his pardon, which he gave, as he said, “freely.”  Yet it struck them that he looked sadder than a booby-trap should have made him.

It was just before bed-time that Eliot told them the awful thing.

“I suppose you know,” he said, “that Pinkney’s mother’s dying?”

“I didn’t,” said Jerrold.  “But I might have known.  I notice that when you’re excited, really excited, something awful’s bound to happen....  Don’t cry, Anne.  It was beastly of us, but we didn’t know.”

“No.  It’s no use crying,” said Eliot.  “You can’t do anything.”

“That’s it,” Anne sobbed.  “If we only could.  If we could go to him and tell him we wouldn’t have done it if we’d known.”

“You jolly well can’t.  It would only bother the poor chap.  Besides, it was Jerry did it.  Not you.”

“It was me.  I filled the sponge.  We did it together.”

What they had done was beastly—­setting booby-traps for Pinkney, and laughing at him when his mother was dying—­but they had done it together.  The pain of her sin had sweetness in it since she shared it with Jerry.  Jerry’s arm was round her as she went upstairs to bed, crying.  They sat together on her bed, holding each other’s hands; they faced it together.

“You’d never have done it, Anne, if I hadn’t made you.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much if we hadn’t laughed at him.”

“Well, we couldn’t help that.  And it wasn’t as if we’d known.”

“If only we could tell him—­”

“We can’t.  He’d hate us to go talking to him about his mother.”

“He’d hate us.”

Then Anne had an idea.  They couldn’t talk to Pinkney but they could write.  That wouldn’t hurt him.  Jerry fetched a pencil and paper from the schoolroom; and Anne wrote.

    Dear Pinkney:  We didn’t know.  We wouldn’t have done it if we’d
    known.  We are awfully sorry.

    Yours truly,

    ANNE SEVERN.

    P.S.  You aren’t to answer this.

    JERROLD FIELDING.

Half an hour later Jerrold knocked at her door.

“Anne—­are you in bed?”

She got up and stood with him at the door in her innocent nightgown.

“It’s all right,” he said.  “I’ve seen Pinkney.  He says we aren’t to worry.  He knew we wouldn’t have done it if we’d known.”

“Was he crying?”

“No.  Laughing....  All the same, it’ll be a lesson to us,” he said.

xii

“Where’s Jerrold?”

Robert Fielding called from the dogcart that waited by the porch.  Eliot sat beside him, very stiff and straight, painfully aware of his mother who stood on the flagged path below, and made yearning faces at him, doing her best, at this last moment, to destroy his morale.  Colin sat behind him by Jerrold’s place, tearful but excited.  He was to go with them to the station.  Eliot tried hard to look as if he didn’t care; and, as his mother said, he succeeded beautifully.