The voice was Adelaide's, but the tone of it was so different from her ordinary one that Joyce could hardly believe her ears. She, however, opened the door and convinced herself that her visitor was indeed Adelaide, the elder and much more beautiful of her two handsome cousins. She also somewhat resembled Mr. Evans in disposition; but, like him, had rarely courage to express her sentiments when they differed from those of her mother and sister. "May I come in?" she repeated, as she hesitated on the threshold of Joyce's room. "Certainly. I am glad, very glad, to have you." "That is kind, Cousin Joyce; kinder than I deserve. I am come to make a confession, Joyce; I have been very unkind to you. Will you forgive me?" "I do not understand. You have done nothing," said Joyce, amazed at the visit, words, and look of her cousin, who had taken her hand, and was holding it between both her own. "Perhaps I have not done much, after all," she said; "but one has often as much cause to grieve for the not doing what is right and kind as for active unkindness. Cousin Joyce, I have had a revelation to-day. I have had a peep at my own heart and life, and I am dissatisfied with both, especially in connection with yourself. When you spoke to my mother this morning and told her what you were going to do, how you had made up your mind to leave the only relatives you have in the world, because under their roof you had a shelter, not a home, I felt so sorry for you, so ashamed for ourselves. It was your birthday morning. You are twenty-one to-day. I was the same four months ago, and then my mother did not know how to lavish enough of costly things upon me. I had cards—works of art that had cost pounds; flowers in profusion, letters, messages, callers, jewellery, finery of all kinds, and a grand evening party given in my honour. And you, Cousin Joyce, had nothing but the coldest greeting, and an offer of our secondhand and third-best clothes. Please let me finish—" for Joyce would have stopped the confession half-way. "I do not know how it was brought about, but I seemed to see everything you had endured under this roof from the day of your coming. No welcome, no sympathy, no home, no friends." "Yes, my uncle has always been kind, and I have had Sarah Keene. Besides, I was but a stranger who had to win the affection of strangers, though they might be relatives; and I really believe you care for me after all!" cried Joyce, looking up into Adelaide's face, and smiling through the tears which her cousin's words had brought to her eyes. "Forgive me, Adelaide. I want forgiveness, too, for I have judged you rather hardly, I am afraid." "No, you have not; I have never been kind, but I want to be now." And two pairs of arms went out, and two girls' lips met for the first time in mutual affection and forgiveness. Then they sat down side by side, each encircling the other with one embracing arm.