“Won’t it do after dinner, sister Evelyn?” I asked, gravely and literally.  “I want to go and see about my mole, now—­my poor mole that Hodges wounded with his spade this morning.  It suffers so dreadfully!”—­clasping my hands in a tragic manner, not unusual with me when excited.

“There! what did I tell you, Mrs. Austin?  You will believe my report of Miriam another time—­little blab!  There is nothing safe where she is, and as to keeping a secret, she could not do it if her own life were at stake, I verily believe.”

“I can keep a secret,” I said, fiercely, “you know I can!  You burnt my finger in the candle to make me tell you where the squirrel was, and I would not do it; Now, miss, remember that, and tell the truth next time!”

“What a little spit-fire,” said Evelyn, derisively.  “You see for yourself, Mrs. Austin.”

“O Evelyn, Evelyn, did you, do that?” moaned the good woman.  “Your little sister’s hand!  To burn it so cruelly, and in cold blood.  I would not have believed it of you, my Evelyn—­that was not like your mamma at all,” and she shook her head dolefully.  “Miriam is a brave child, after all.”  A wonderful admission for her to make.

“If you believe every thing that limb of the synagogue tells you, Mrs. Austin, you will have a great deal to swallow, that is all I shall say on the subject,” and she turned away derisively.

“Do you mean to deny it, then, Evelyn Erle?” asked Mrs. Austin, earnestly, laying her hand on her arm, and shaking her slightly as she was about to leave the room.  “Come back and answer me.  I hope Miriam is only angry—­I hope you did not do this thing.”

“I will not be forcibly detained by any old woman in America,” said Evelyn, struggling stoutly, “nor questioned either about a pack of fibs.  Miriam knows better than to tell such stories—­or ought to be taught better.”

“It was no story,” I said, solemnly.  “It was true.  You did burn my finger, and begged me not to tell Constance or papa afterward, and I never told them, because I never break my word if I can help it, and I wouldn’t have told Mrs. Austin (but I didn’t promise about her, you know), only you twitted me so meanly, and made me so mad—­and it all came out.  For I can keep a secret!  I know where that squirrel is now, Evelyn Erle, but I will never tell any one—­never—­not even Constance Glen.  I promised myself that, and crossed my heart about it when you tried to cut off its tail—­its pretty, bushy tail that God gave it to keep the flies off with.”

Mrs. Austin was shedding tears by this time; Evelyn’s insolence and duplicity had stung her to the quick, and she saw, with real concern, that I had justice on my side.  She had relinquished her hold on Evelyn, who stood now sullenly glaring at me, pale as a sheet, her eyes white with rage, looking like heated steel, her lips trembling with passion.

“You shall tell me where that squirrel is, or I will appeal to papa,” she said, sharply.  “It was mine.  Norman Stanbury said so when he brought it here and gave it to me.  You heard him, little cheat!”