“Oh, but I couldn’t!” cried Anna.  She was so intensely relieved to find that, as yet, she was not suspected, that much of her courage and boldness came back.  “And, of course, I shouldn’t, unless they asked me, and—­and for mother’s sake it would be very foolish to—­to get myself into a scrape when I needn’t.”

“But—­but, Anna”—­Anna’s speech left Kitty almost voiceless—­“it is—­it is so dishonourable, so dishonest, so—­”

“No, it isn’t,” snapped Anna crossly.  She bitterly regretted now that she had taken Kitty into her confidence.  She had done it in a moment of panic when she felt that detection was certain, and she must get help from somewhere.  As soon as she knew that she was not suspected her courage and hopes had rallied.  “You need not mind; you will be cleared; and they can’t find and punish any one else, for there is no one else to find, so it can’t do any one any harm.”

“There is Lettice,” said Kitty coldly.  “You know you can’t trust her, and if she tells, things will look ever so much worse for you than—­”

“I don’t think Lettice will tell,” interrupted Anna meaningly.  “She knows that if she tells tales I can tell some too.”

“You count on other people having some honour, though you have none yourself,” said Kitty scathingly, and she turned away, choking with disgust.  Anna made her feel positively ill.  When she got to the door she stood and looked back.  Her face was very white and stern, her eyes full of a burning contempt.  “I do think, Anna,” she said slowly and scornfully, “that you are the meanest, most dishonourable girl I ever heard of in all my life.  You are going to leave all the girls in the school under suspicion because you haven’t the honesty or courage to own up.”

“It isn’t anything to do with honesty,” muttered Anna, very white and angry and sullen.  “You have no right to say such things, Kitty.  If you didn’t do it, it can’t do you any harm; and if no one suspects me, it isn’t likely that I shall make them.  I shan’t be telling a story.  I simply shan’t say anything.”

“I see no difference between telling a lie and acting one,” flashed Kitty, and she walked back to her own room without another word.  She had not been there long, though, before Anna came creeping in again.

“Kitty,” she said anxiously, “you won’t tell any one, will you, even if you are mad with me?  You know I never said I—­I—­you accused me, but I didn’t say—­”

“I am not a sneak,” said Kitty coldly.  “Now go away.  Go out of my room.  I don’t like to see you near Betty.  Go away, do you hear!” and Anna vanished again into the darkness.

Though strong and secure in her own innocence, Kitty awoke in the morning with the feeling weighing heavily on her that though the matter would soon be ended, yet something very painful had to be faced first.  Kitty, though, was counting too much on her own guiltlessness, and the certainty of others believing in it; and she had more cause than she imagined for waking with a weight on her mind.