own annoyance over the matter was not born out of any sympathy with Emily but solely from anger at a Murray being made ridiculous.
“I would have thought you’d had enough of going to see Ilse. As for Evelyn Blake, she is too clever and sensible a girl to have played a silly trick like that. I know the Blakes. They are an excellent family and Evelyn’s father is well-to-do. Now, stop crying. A pretty face you’ve got. What sense is there in crying?”
“None at all,” agreed Emily drearily, “only I can’t help it. I can’t bear to be made ridiculous. I can endure anything but that. Oh, Aunt Ruth, please leave me alone. I can’t eat any supper.”
“You've got yourself all worked up—Starr-like. We Murrays conceal our feelings.”
“I don’t believe you’ve any to conceal—some of you,” thought Emily rebelliously.
“Keep away from Ilse Burnley after this, and you'll not be so likely to be publicly disgraced,” was Aunt Ruth’s parting advice.
Emily, after a sleepless night—during which it seemed to her that if she couldn’t push that ceiling farther from her face she would surely smother—went to see Ilse the next day and reluctantly told her what Aunt Ruth had said. Ilse was furious—but Emily noted with a pang that she did not assert any innocence of the crayon trick.
“Ilse, you—you didn’t really do that?” she faltered. She knew Ilse hadn’t—she was sure of it—but she wanted to hear her say so. To her surprise, a sudden blush swept over Ilse’s face.
“Is thy servant a dog?” she said, rather confusedly. It was very unlike straightforward, outspoken Ilse to be so confused. She turned her face away and began fumbling aimlessly with her book-bag. “You don’t suppose I’d do anything like that to you, Emily?”
“No, of course not,” said Emily, slowly. The subject was dropped. But the little doubt and distrust at the
