write it to
Mary, and then Mary would write back and tell the truth. Agony grew hot
and cold by turns as she lay there thinking of the certainty of
exposure. What a blind fool she had been. If only she had told the story
the minute she got home that day, instead of keeping it to herself,
then the moment of temptation would never have come to her. If only Mary
hadn't been called away just then!

Could she still take the story back, she wondered, and tell it as it
really had been? Her heart sank at the thought and her pride cried out
against it. No, she could never stand the disgrace. But what if the
truth were to leak out through Mary--that would be infinitely worse. Her
thoughts went around in a torturing circle and brought her to no
decision. Should she make a clean breast of it now and have nothing more
to fear, or should she take a chance on Jo's never mentioning it to
Mary?

While she was debating the question back and forth in her mind Bengal
Virden came running into the tent. Bengal was beginning to tag after
Agony as she had formerly tagged after Mary Sylvester. Agony often
caught the younger girl's eyes fastened upon her with an expression of
worship that fairly embarrassed her. It was the first real crush that a
younger girl had ever had on Agony, and although Agony laughed about it
to her friends, she still derived no small amount of satisfaction from
it, and had resolved to be a real influence for good to stout, fly-away
Bengal.

The girl came running in now with a leaf cup full of red, ripe
raspberries in her hand, and laid it in Agony's lap. "I picked them all
for you," she remarked, looking at Agony with an adoring gaze.

"Oh, thank you," said Agony, sitting up and fingering the tempting gift.
She selected a large ripe berry and put it into her mouth, giving an
involuntary exclamation of pleasure at the fine, rich flavor of the
fruit. This, she reflected, was the reward of popularity--the cream of
all good things from the hands of her admirers. Could she give it
up--could she bear to see their admiration turn to scorn?

"And Agony," begged Bengal, "may I have a lock of your hair to keep?"
The depths of adoration expressed in that request sent an odd thrill
through Agony. She knew then that she could not bear it to have Bengal
be disappointed in her; could not let her know that she was only posing
as a heroine. The die was cast. She would take her chance on no one's
ever finding it out.

Right after