hard realities of life has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the
frost of disappointment nipped all our morning glories in their
prime. The old red stage stopped at Enos Devon's door, and his niece
crossed the threshold after a cool handshake with the master of the
house, and a close embrace with the mistress, who stood pouring out
last words with spectacles too dim for seeing. Fat Ben swung up the
trunk, slammed the door, mounted his perch, and the ancient vehicle
swayed with premonitory symptoms of departure.

Then something smote Christie's heart. "Stop!" she cried, and
springing out ran back into the dismal room where the old man sat.
Straight up to him she went with outstretched hand, saying steadily,
though her face was full of feeling:

"Uncle, I'm not satisfied with that good-bye. I don't mean to be
sentimental, but I do want to say, 'Forgive me!' I see now that I
might have made you sorry to part with me, if I had tried to make
you love me more. It's too late now, but I'm not too proud to
confess when I'm wrong. I want to part kindly; I ask your pardon; I
thank you for all you've done for me, and I say good-bye
affectionately now."

Mr. Devon had a heart somewhere, though it seldom troubled him; but
it did make itself felt when the girl looked at him with his dead
sister's eyes, and spoke in a tone whose unaccustomed tenderness was
a reproach.

Conscience had pricked him more than once that week, and he was glad
to own it now; his rough sense of honor was touched by her frank
expression, and, as he answered, his hand was offered readily.