Betty did not reply, nor for a few moments did she attempt to follow.  Her aunt’s determination to believe Anna all that was good and innocent and injured, and herself and Kitty all that was mean and bad, increased her resentment a thousand times.  Betty could never endure injustice.

“I won’t apologize.  I won’t.  I can’t.  I couldn’t.  I have nothing to apologize for,” she thought indignantly.  “It is Aunt Pike who ought to do that, and Anna, and ask us to forgive them.  I’ve a good mind to tell everything.  I think it is my duty to Kitty and all of us!” and Betty strutted down the garden looking very determined and important.  Her childlike face was undaunted, her little mouth set firm.

“It is my duty to all of us,” she kept repeating to herself; “it really is.  I am not going to let Kitty bear the blame always.  I know that most people feel quite sure that she really did carry those letters, and then wouldn’t own up, but told stories about it, and Aunt Pike has never been nice to her since, and Lady Kitson scarcely speaks to her, and Miss Richards doesn’t speak at all, and—­and that mean Anna won’t clear her, and—­”

“Well, Elizabeth, I have come to hear your explanations and apologies for your shocking attack on Anna.”

“It was Anna who attacked me,” said Betty.  “It was only when she called me a pry and a spy that I—­that I—­”

“Hurled all sorts of wicked accusations at her.  Oh, I heard you.  You said the most shocking and untrue things in your passion.”

“I didn’t say a word that wasn’t true,” said Betty firmly, “and—­and Anna knows it.  Anna could have cleared Kitty, but she wouldn’t, and I am not going to let Kitty bear the blame for her and Lettice any longer; and if they won’t clear her, I will.  Anna called me a sneak, and I said she was mean and bad, and I meant it; and so she is, to let Kitty go on bearing the blame and the disgrace all her life because she is too honourable to tell how mean they are.”

“Did you say that Anna knew who went to Lettice with that letter that night, and that—­it wasn’t Kafcherine?” asked Aunt Pike, but so quietly and strangely that Betty was really quite frightened by her curious voice and manner.

“Oh, I wish I had not told,” was the thought that rushed through her mind, while her cheeks grew hot with nervousness.  But it was too late now to draw back; she must stick to her guns.  “Yes,” she said, but with evident reluctance.  “Ask Anna, please.  I—­I mustn’t say any more.  Father wouldn’t like—­”

“Was it—­Anna—­herself?” asked Mrs. Pike, still in that strange low voice, only it sounded stranger and farther away this time.

“Oh, I can’t tell you!  I can’t tell you!” cried Betty, shrinking now from telling the dreadful truth.

“There—­is—­no—­need to,” gasped Aunt Pike; but she spoke so low that Betty hardly heard the words, and the next moment the poor, shocked, stricken mother had slipped from her chair to the ground unconscious.