“But, Phil,” she said, “isn’t the boy manly enough to confess, rather than see you suffer for him?”
Phil shook his head.
“No, he’ll never tell.”
“And you really had nothing to do with it?”
The boy had been sitting with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, gazing at the floor; but at this question he threw up his head proudly, and looked straight into Bessie’s eyes.
“Miss Bess,” he said simply, “I told Miss Witherspoon I didn’t, upon my honor, and did you ever know me to lie?”
“No, Phil, I never did.”
“I think she might believe me, too, then,” muttered Phil, as he settled back after his momentary flash. “She thinks I did it, and won’t believe me when I say I didn’t. Oh, how I hate to tell my father!” And he started up to go.
“Will you tell me, Phil, who it was?” asked Bess, as she followed him to the door.
Phil shook his head again.
