August blushed, he could hardly tell why--"I tell you Jule's a nice
girl, and got a nice property back of her, and I hope she won't act like
her mother. And, indeed, I can't hardly believe she will, though the way
she eyes that Humphreys makes me mad." She had suggested the old doubt.
A doubt is dangerous when its face grows familiar, and one recognizes
the "Monsieur Tonson come again."

And all the message the disinterested and benevolent Betsey bore to
Julia was to tell her exultingly that Gus had twice walked home with
her. And they had had such a nice time! And Julia, girl that she was,
declared indignantly that she didn't care whom he went with; though she
did care, and her eyes and face said so. Thus the tongue sometimes
lies--or seems to lie--when the whole person is telling the truth. The
only excuse for the tongue is that it will not be believed, and it knows
that it will not be believed! It only speaks diplomatically, maybe. But
diplomatic talking is bad. Better the truth. If Jule had known that her
words would be reported to August, she would have bitten out her tongue
rather than to have let it utter words that were only the cry of her
wounded pride. Of course Betsey met August in the road the next morning,
in a quiet hollow by the brook, and told him, sympathizingly, almost
affectionately, that she had begun to talk to Julia about him, and that
Jule had said she didn't care. So while Julia uttered a lie she spoke
the truth, and while. Betsey uttered the truth she spoke a lie, willful,
malicious, and wicked.

Now, in the mean time, Julia, on her side, had tried to open
communication through the only channel that offered itself. She did not
attempt it by means of Betsey, because, being a woman, she felt
instinctively that Betsey was not to be trusted. But there was only one
other to whom she was allowed to speak, except under a supervision as