In a week's time Pauline was pronounced convalescent; but although she had recovered her appetite, and to a certain extent her spirits, there was a considerable change over her. This the doctor did not at first remark; but Miss Tredgold and Verena could not help noticing it. For one thing, Pauline hated looking at the sea. She liked to sit with her back to it. When the subject was mentioned she turned fidgety, and sometimes even left the room. Now and then, too, she complained of a weight pressing on her head. In short, she was herself and yet not herself; the old bright, daring, impulsive, altogether fascinating Pauline seemed to be dead and gone.
On the day when she was considered well enough to go into the drawing-room, there was a festival made in her honor. The place looked bright and pretty. Verena had got a large supply of flowers, which she placed in glasses on the supper-table and also on a little table close to Pauline's side. Pauline did not remark on the flowers, however. She did not remark on anything. She was gentle and sweet, and at the same time indifferent to her surroundings.
When supper was over she found herself alone with Penelope. Then a wave of color rushed into her face, and she looked full at her little sister.
"Have I done it or have I not, Pen?" she said. "Have I been awfully wicked--the wickedest girl on earth--or is it a dream? Tell me--tell me, Pen. Tell me the truth."
"It is as true as anything in the wide world," said Pen, speaking with intense emphasis and coming close to her sister. "There never was anybody more wicked than you--_'cept_ me. We are both as bad as bad can be. But I tell you what, Paulie, though I meant to tell, I am not going to tell now; for but for you I'd have been drownded, and I am never, never, never going to tell."
"But for me!" said Pauline, and the expression on her face was somewhat vague.
"Oh, Paulie, how white you look! No, I will never tell. I love you now, and it is your secret and mine for ever and ever."
Pauline said nothing. She put her hand to her forehead; the dull weight on her head was very manifest.
"We are going home next week," continued Pen in her brightest manner. "You will be glad of that. You will see Briar and Patty and all the rest, and perhaps you will get to look as you used to. You are not much to be proud of now. You are seedy-looking, and rather dull, and not a bit amusing. But I loves you, and I'll never, never tell."