“Yes, there is!” cried Kathleen.  “I am much, much worse than Julia.  Father couldn’t bear to know that I had hurt Julia’s feelings and hurt yours too.  I was false to father, and you, and Uncle Allan, and Julia.  Nothing can be said for me, nothing!  I am so ashamed of myself that I shall never get over it in the world.  Oh, Julia, could you shake hands with me, just to show me you know how I despise myself?”

Julia shook hands considerably less like a slug or a limpet than usual, and something very queer and unexpected happened when her hand met poor Kitty’s wet, feverish little paw and she heard the quiver in her voice.  She suddenly stooped and kissed her cousin, quite without intention.  Kathleen returned the salute with grateful, pathetic warmth, and then the two fell on Mother Carey’s neck to be kissed and cried over for a full minute.

“I’ll go to the doctor and have my ugly tooth pulled out,” exclaimed Kathleen, wiping her eyes.  “If it hadn’t been for that I never could have been so horrible!”

“That would be all very well for once,” answered her mother with a tired smile, “but if you pluck out a supposed offending member every time you do something wrong, I fear you will not have many left when you are an old lady!”

“Mother!” said Kathleen, almost under her breath and not daring to look up, “couldn’t I stay at home from Charlestown and show you and Julia, here, how sorry I am?”

“Yes, let her, Aunt Margaret, and then I can have a chance to try too,” pleaded Julia.

Had the heavens fallen?  Had the Paragon, the Pink of Propriety and Perfection, confessed a fault?  Had the heart of the smug one, the prig, melted, and did she feel at last her kinship to the Carey chickens?  Had she suffered a real grievance, the first amongst numberless deeds of tenderness, and having resented it like an “old beast,” forgiven it like a “new” one?  It certainly seemed as if Mother Carey that week were at her old trade of making things make themselves.  Gilbert, Kathleen, and Julia had all fought their way under the ice-pack and were getting a glimpse of Shiny Wall.

XXIV

A LETTER PROM GERMANY

Mother Carey walked down the village street one morning late in August, while Peter, milk pail in hand, was running by her side and making frequent excursions off the main line of travel.  Beulah looked enchanting after a night of rain, and the fields were greener than they had been since haying time.  Unless Mr. Hamilton were away from his consular post on a vacation somewhere on the Continent, he should have received, and answered, Bill Harmon’s letter before this, she was thinking, as she looked at the quiet beauty of the scene that had so endeared itself to her in a few short months.

Mrs. Popham had finished her morning’s work and was already sitting at her drawing-in frame in the open doorway, making a very purple rose with a very scarlet centre.