"I, too, have suffered," pleaded Hilda, "for my pride and selfishness, I suppose. Let me relieve my mind by confessing my sin and securing forgiveness."
The thought of all that the gay young bride of a year before had endured touched Gwyneth's heart. Schooled to forget her own grief in that of others, she tried to say something sympathetic. Words, however, failed her. She merely bent her graceful neck and kissed the young widow's anxious brow, while the gentle breeze blew the unconfined tresses of golden hair about the other's pale face.
"Gwyneth, I shall always hale myself for having written that horrid letter; for having despised you—you, who were so vastly my superior in every way—for having striven to separate you from my brother. Can you forgive me?"
The dying girl placed an emaciated arm round the other's neck, bent her head, as if tired, on Hilda's breast, and said—
"Forgive you? I thank you, now. It had to be."
Through her closed eyes tears found their way, and moistened the long lashes upon which they glistened as dew.
Hilda kissed the frail girl, and stroked the transparent cheek. Bending over her she whispered—
"It had not to be, Gwyneth. He loved you dearly. Never for one moment has he wavered in his attachment. I know it."
The sick girl opened her eyes that seemed to have expanded and gathered lustre as her frame decayed. Fixing a searching gaze on her companion's face she exclaimed—
"It cannot be. I have imagined every possible explanation of his conduct. Only one remains."
