Patty paused with brush in air, her eyes on Hetty's image in the
glass; but Hetty went on inconsequently: "But surely you get word of
him, now and then, in those letters from home which you hide from me?
Patty, I am a stronger woman than you: and you may think yourself
lucky I haven't put you through the door before this, laid violent
hands on the whole budget, and read them through at my leisure.
You invite it, too, by locking them up; which against a determined
person would avail nothing and is therefore merely an insult, my
dear."

"You know perfectly well why I do not show you my letters. They are
all crying out for news of you--mother, and Emmy and Molly: even poor
honest Nan breaks off writing about John Lambert and when the wedding
is to be and what she is to wear, and begs to hear if there be
anything wrong. And all I can answer is, that you are well, with a
line or two about the children. They must think me a fool, and it
has kept me miserable ever since I came. But more I _will_ not say.
At least--" She seemed about to correct herself, but came to an
abrupt halt and began brushing vigorously. Hetty could not see the
flush on her sallow face.

"Dear old Molly!" Hetty murmured the name of her favourite sister.
"But I could not write without telling her and loading her poor
conscience."

"Much you think of conscience, with a letter from him in your hand at
this minute!"

"But I do think of conscience. And the best proof of it is, I am
going home."