“Oh, that lovely smile!” she cried, “how it lights your face; and now you look so good and forgiving, dearer and better even than a king.  Uncle John, kiss me again; my heart is so glad! shall I run now and tell Aunt Margaret all this sweet news?”

“No, no, darling little peace-maker, stay here; I will go to her myself;” and he hurried away.

Annie Bermond sat alone upon the hill, musingly platting the long grass together, but she heeded not the work of her fingers.  Her face was bright with joy, her heart full of happiness.  Dear child! in one brief hour she had learned the blessedness of that birthright which is for all God’s sons and daughters, if they will but claim it.  I mean the privilege of doing good, of being useful.

Miss Greylston sat by the parlour window, just where she could see who crossed the lawn.  She was waiting with a kind of nervous impatience for Annie.  She heard a footstep, but it was only Liddy going down to the dairy.  Then Reuben went by on his way to the meadow, and all was silent again.  Where was Annie?—­but now quick feet sounded upon the crisp and faded leaves.  Miss Margaret looked out, and saw her brother coming,—­then she was sure Annie had in some way missed him, and she drew back from the window keenly disappointed, not even a faint suspicion of the blessed truth crossing her mind.  As John Greylston entered the hall, a sudden and irresistible desire prompted Margaret to go and tell him all the loving and forgiving thoughts of her heart, no matter what his mood should be.  So she threw down her work, and went quickly towards the parlour door.  And the brother and sister met, just on the threshold.

“John—­John,” she said, falteringly, “I must speak to you; I cannot bear this any longer.”

“Nor can I, Margaret.”

Miss Greylston looked up in her brother’s face; it was beaming with love and tenderness.  Then she knew the hour of reconciliation had come, and with a quick, glad cry, she sprang into his arms and laid her head down upon his shoulder.

“Can you ever forgive me, Madge?”

She made no reply—­words had melted into tears, but they were eloquent, and for a little while it was quite still in the parlour.

“You shall blame yourself no longer, Margaret.  All along you have behaved like a sweet Christian woman as you are, but I have been an old fool, unreasonable and cross from the very beginning.  Can you really forgive me all those harsh words, for which I hated myself not ten hours after they were said?  Can you, indeed, forgive and forget these?  Tell me so again.”

“John,” she said, raising her tearful face from his shoulder, “I do forgive you most completely, with my whole heart, and, O!  I wanted so to tell you this two days ago, but your coldness kept me back.  I was afraid your anger was not over, and that you would repel me.”

“Ah, that coldness was but shame—­deep and painful shame.  I was needlessly harsh with you, and moments of reflection only served to fasten on me the belief that I had lost all claim to your love, that you could not forgive me.  Yes!  I did misjudge you, Madge, I know, but when I looked back upon the past, and all your faithful love for me, I saw you as I had ever seen you, the best of sisters, and then my shameful and ungrateful conduct rose up clearly before me.  I felt so utterly unworthy.”