And I realised just what your friendship had come to mean to me—just what you meant—and just what a hateful little beast I had been.”
“Leslie! Leslie! I never allow anyone to call my friends names.”
“It’s true. That’s exactly what I am—a hateful little beast. There’s something I’ve got to tell you, Anne. I suppose it will make you despise me, but I must confess it. Anne, there have been times this past winter and spring when I have hated you.”
“I knew it,” said Anne calmly.
“You knew it?”
“Yes, I saw it in your eyes.”
“ And yet you went on liking me and being my friend.”
“Well, it was only now and then you hated me, Leslie. Between times you loved me, I think.”
“I certainly did. But that other horrid feeling was always there, spoiling it, back in my heart. I kept it down—sometimes I forgot it—but sometimes it would surge up and take possession of me. I hated you because I envied you—oh, I was sick with envy of you at times. You had a dear little home—and love—and happiness—and glad dreams—everything I wanted—and never had—and never could have. Oh, never could have! That was what stung. I wouldn’t have envied you, if I had had any hope that life would ever be different for me. But I hadn’t—I hadn’t—and it didn’t seem fair. It made me re-
