"But I did mean to." She held her finger up to emphasize it, and repeated, "I did mean to." "Well, then, dear, she told him that you were sorry." "Yes," sighing. "I'm sorry now. I wasn't sorry then, when she went away." "I'll tell you, darling, what you can do,"—ma saw she was really troubled and conscience-stricken,—"you can kneel down and tell God yourself that you are sorry. He will forgive you." She knelt for some time by her little chair, whispering her prayer in God's ear. Since that she has never mentioned Bridget's name. She must have suffered all that time from the pricks of her tender conscience. I'm sure I saw tears in Mr. Angus's eyes when ma told him about it. Good-by, dear Marion. The breakfast-bell is ringing, and I'm sure Gardner is doing it, for it is done with a will. He's hungry, I suppose. From COUSIN ANNIE. CHAPTER XIV. THE LOST PACKAGE. "DON'T wake her; I'll call again." "I think, Doctor, she wished to see you specially." "Yes, I do," called out Marion, awaking from a refreshing nap, with Annie's letter still in her hand. "Doctor, I'm almost well." "Decidedly. Are you dismissing me?" "No, indeed; but I want to ask you something." She waited a moment, as though uncertain how to state her business. "Doctor, I have something on my mind that troubles me. I feel sure I should be well at once if it were decided." "Is it a case of blasted affections, or—" "Don't joke, Doctor: it's a serious affair. It's a breach of trust on my part, and I can't rest until I have done all in my power to remedy the injury." "Why do you tell me this?" he asked, evidently startled. "Go to your lawyer, or—perhaps your clergymen would do better." "Because you were my father's friend, and you are my friend. I only tell you now to get your consent to my doing what my conscience tells me is my duty." "I can't give advice on such general information. I must know particulars." "I will state a case. Suppose a very sick and dying girl confided to your care a letter or letters containing her last words to a dear friend, name unknown. Suppose that years passed and you never thought of the trust, and at last, when you had reason to suspect you had found the right person, the letters were lost. Suppose that this person was a dreadful sufferer for want of the words which are probably in those lost letters. What would you do, Dr. Ross?" "I am very sorry for you, my dear child, if you are in such trouble as that. Can't you inform the person of the contents of the letters?" "If I only knew what the contents are, and that he is the right one to receive them. Years had passed since she had heard from her friend, and she often said it would be a relief to know that he had repented and died. I inferred that he had done her some great wrong, and she had told him she never would forgive him. Before she died she did forgive him with all her heart, and with almost her last breath left him her love and her blessing." "Tell the person that."