"And
he asked you, Elma?"
Elma bowed her head. "Yes, he asked me--and I refused him," she
answered, with a terrible wrench.
"Oh, darling; I know it," Mrs. Clifford cried, seizing both cold
hands in hers. "And I know why, too. But, Elma, believe me, you
needn't have done it. My daughter, my daughter, you might just as
well have taken him."
"No, never," Elma cried, rising from her seat and moving towards
the door in an agony of shame. "I couldn't. I daren't. It would
be wrong. It would be cruel. But, mother, don't speak to me of it.
Don't mention it again. Even before you it makes me more wretched
and ashamed than I can say to allude to it."
She rushed from the room, with cheeks burning like fire. Come what
might, she never could talk to any living soul again about that
awful episode.
But Mrs. Clifford sat on, on the sofa where Elma left her, and cried
to herself silently, silently, silently. What a mother should do
in these hateful circumstances she could hardly even guess. She
only knew she could never speak it out, and even if she did, Elma
would never have the courage or the heart to listen to her.
That same evening, when Elma went up to bed, a strange longing
came across her to sit up late, and think over to herself again all
the painful details of the morning's interview.
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