"Let us go in here for a moment," said Tom, "and get our breath
for a new fight."
Letty said nothing, but Tom felt she was reluctant.
"Not a soul will pass to-night," he said. "We mustn't get wet to
the skin."
Letty felt, or fancied, refusal would be more unmaidenly than
consent, and allowed Tom to lead her in. And there, within those
dismal walls, the twilight sinking into a cheerless night of
rain, encouraged by the very dreariness and obscurity of the
place, she told Tom the trouble of mind their interview at the
oak was causing her, saying that now it would be worse than ever,
for it was altogether impossible to confess that she had met him
yet again that evening.
So now, indeed, Letty's foot was in the snare: she had a secret
with Tom. Every time she saw him, liberty had withdrawn a pace.
There was no room for confession now. If a secret held be a
burden, a secret shared is a fetter. But Tom's heart rejoiced
within him.
"Let me see!--How old are you, Letty?" he asked gayly.
"Eighteen past," she answered.
"Then you are fit to judge for yourself. You ain't a child, and
they are not your father and mother. What right have they to know
everything you do? I wouldn't let any such nonsense trouble me."
"But they give me everything, you know--food, and clothes, and
all."
"Ah, just so!" returned Tom. "And what do you do for them?"
"Nothing.
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