Tell me where you have been."
There was something in the sternness of that low lady-like voice, and
of that dark deep eye, that terrified Kate more than the brightest
flash of lightning: and it was well for her that the habit of truth
was too much fixed for falsehood or shuffling even to occur to her.
She did not dare to do more than utter in a faint voice, scarcely
audible "To the bazaar."
"In direct defiance of my commands?"
But the sound of her own confession, the relief of having told, gave
Kate spirit to speak; "I know it was naughty," she said, looking up;
"I ought not. Aunt Barbara, I have been very naughty. I've been
often where you didn't know."
"Tell me the whole truth, Katharine;" and Lady Barbara's look
relaxed, and the infinite relief of putting an end to a miserable
concealment was felt by the little girl; so she told of the shops she
had been at, and of her walks in frequented streets, adding that
indeed she would not have gone, but that Josephine took her. "I did
like it," she added candidly; "but I know I ought not."
"Yes, Katharine," said Lady Barbara, almost as sternly as ever; "I
had thought that with all your faults you were to be trusted."
"I have told you the truth!" cried Kate.
"Now you may have; but you have been deceiving me all this time; you,
who ought to set an example of upright and honourable conduct."
"No, no, Aunt!" exclaimed Kate, her eyes flashing.
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