But Brian Oakley didn't scold me for that, though--he knows I always do as he says.

He scolded because I hadn't told you about my going to see Mr.King, in the spring glade." She laughed, conscious of the color that was in her cheeks.

"I told him it didn't matter whether I told you or not, because he always knows every single move I make, anyway." "Why _didn't_ you tell me, dear ?" asked the woman.

"You never kept anything from me, before--I'm sure." "Why dearest," the girl answered frankly, "I don't know, myself, why I didn't tell you"-- which, Myra Willard knew, was the exact truth.
Then Sibyl told her foster-mother everything about her acquaintance with the artist and Conrad Lagrange--from the time she first watched the painter, from the arbor in the rose garden, where she met the novelist; until that afternoon, when she had invited them to supper, the next day.
Only of her dancing before the artist, the girl did not tell.
Later in the evening, Sibyl--saying that she would sing Myra to sleep--took her violin to the porch, outside the window; and in the dusk made soft music until the woman's troubled heart was calmed.

When the moon came up from behind the Galenas, across the canyon, the girl tiptoed into the house, to bend over the sleeping woman, in tender solicitude.