The words she overheard had not told her much, and she might have tried to forget them.

But she thrust that thought from her like an evil thing.

She would have hated herself if she had followed that course and found out the truth of her birth afterwards, deeming herself unworthy of the love of one who had been ready to sacrifice everything for her sake.
No! It was better, far better, that she should know.
She had not thought of suspicion falling on herself.

Her youth and inexperience, borne upward on the lofty wings of sacrifice, had not foreseen the damning significance which might gather round her secret visit to Flint House and her subsequent disappearance.

Not even when she heard of her father's death had the folly of her contemplated action dawned on her.