from her heart, but now she did not try to
force it back. The dark room where she
sat, the gloomy, sunless house, seemed fading
from her sight; the long, long years, with
their weary train of shame and suffering—all
were forgotten. She was in her old lost
home again—the home where she was born;
she saw a sunny lawn, embowered with trees,
each tree familiar to her and remembered
well, and she herself, a happy child, was
standing there; and by her side—with soft
arms twining round her, with tender voice,
and gentle, loving eyes, and bright hair
glittering in the sunlight—there was one!

Oh, Bertha! hide thy face and weep. She
was so lovely and so loving, so good and true,
so patient and so tender, then. Oh! how
could'st thou forget it all, and steel thy heart
against her, and vow the cruel vow never to
forgive her sin? Thy mother—thy own
mother, Bertha! think of it.

A shadow fell across the window beside
which she sat, and through her blinding tears
Bertha looked up, and saw a woman standing
there, holding by the hand a little child. Her
face was very pale and worn, with sunken
eyes and cheeks; her dress was mean and
poor. She looked haggard and weary, and
weak and ill; but Bertha knew that it was
Gabrielle come back. She could not speak,
for such a sudden rush of joy came to her
softened heart that all words seemed
swallowed up in it; such deep thankfulness for
the forgiveness that seemed given her, that
her first thought was not a welcome, but a
prayer.

Gabrielle stood without, looking at her with
her sad eyes.

"We are alone," she said, "and very poor;
will you take us in?"

Sobbing with pity and with joy, Bertha
rose from her seat and hurried to the
door. Trembling, she drew the wanderers
in; then falling on her sister's neck, her
whole heart melted, and she cried, with
gushing tears,
"Gabrielle, dear sister Gabrielle, I, too, am
all alone!"

The tale that Gabrielle had to tell was full
enough of sadness. They had lived together,
she and her mother, for about a year, very
peacefully, almost happily; and then the mother
died, and Gabrielle soon after married one who
had little to give her but his love. And after
that the years passed on with many cares and
griefs—for they were very poor, and he not
strong—but with a great love ever between
them, which softened the pain of all they had
to bear. At last, after being long ill, he
died, and poor Gabrielle and her child were
left to struggle on alone.

"I think I should have died," she said, as,
weeping, she told her story to her sister, "if
it had not been for my boy; and I could so
well have borne to die; but, Bertha, I could
not leave him to starve! It pierced my heart
with a pang so bitter that I cannot speak
of it, to see his little face grow daily paler;
his little feeble form become daily feebler
and thinner; to watch the sad, unchildlike
look fixing itself hourly deeper in his sweet
eyes—so mournful, so uncomplaining, so full
of misery. The sight killed me day by day;
and then at last, in my despair, I said to myself
that I would come again to you. I thought,
sister—I hoped—that you would take my
darling home, and then I could have gone
away and died. But God bless you!—God
bless you for the greater thing that you have
done, my kind sister Bertha. Yes—kiss me,
sister dear: it is so sweet. I never thought
to feel a sister's kiss again."

Then kneeling down by Gabrielle's side,
with a low voice Bertha said:
   "I have thought of many things to-day.
Before you came, Gabrielle, my heart was very
full; for in the still evening, as I sat alone,
the memories of many years came back to me
as they have not done for very long. I thought
of my two sisters: how the one had ever been
so good and loving and true-hearted; the
other—though she was just, or believed herself
to be so—so hard, and stern, and harsh—
as, God forgive me, Gabrielle, I too have been.
I thought of this, and understood it clearly,
as I had never done before: and then my
thoughts went back, and rested on my mother
—on our old home—on all the things that I
had loved so well, long ago, and that for years
had been crushed down in my heart and
smothered there. Oh, Gabrielle, such things
rushed back upon me; such thoughts of her
whom we have scorned so many years; such
dreams of happy by-gone days; such passionate
regrets; such hope, awakening from its
long, long sleep—no, sister, let me weep—do
not wipe the tears away: let me tell you of
my penitence and grief—it does me good; my
heart is so full—so full that I must speak now,
or it would burst!"

"Then you shall speak to me, and tell me
all, dear sister. Ah! we have both suffered
—we will weep together. Lie down beside
me; see, there is room here for both. Yes;
lay your head upon me; rest it on my
shoulder. Give me your hand now—ah! how
thin it is—almost as thin as mine. Poor
sister Bertha: poor, kind sister!"

So gently Gabrielle soothed her, forgetting
her own grief and weariness in Bertha's more
bitter suffering and remorse. It was very
beautiful to see how tenderly and patiently
she did it, and how her gentle words calmed
down the other's passionate sorrow. So
different from one another their grief was.
Gabrielle's was a slow, weary pain, which,
day by day, had gradually withered her,
eating its way into her heart; then resting
there, fixing itself there for ever. Bertha's
was like the quick, sudden piercing of a knife
—a violent sorrow, that did its work in hours
instead of years, convulsing body and soul for
a little while, purifying them as with a sharp