"I calls that a shame," put in Emma; "but you could tell _we_, Master
Armine. It ain't like telling your ma nor your master."
"I said no one," said Armine.
The maids left off tormenting him after a time, letting him fall
asleep with his head on the lap of old nurse, who went on dreamily
stroking his damp hair, not half understanding the matter, or she
would have sent him to bed.
Being bound by no promise of secrecy, Emma met her mistress with a
statement of the surmises of the kitchen, and Caroline hurried
thither to find him waking to headache, fiery cheeks, and aching
limbs, which were not simply the consequence of the position in which
he had been sleeping before the fire. She saw him safe in bed before
she asked any questions, but then she began her interrogations, as
little successfully as the maids.
"I can't, mother," he said, hiding his face on the pillow.
"My little boy used to have no secrets from me."
"Men must have secrets sometimes, though they rack their hearts and-—
their backs," sighed poor Armine, rolling over. "Oh, mother, my back
is so bad! Please don't bother besides."
"My poor darling! Let me rub it. There, you might trust Mother
Carey! She would not tell Mr. Ogilvie, nor get any one into
trouble.
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