"I did not think that I should say it first, Not even when you stayed away so long; I thought I could be proud and stubborn, too, I did not know that love could be so strong. I did not think that life could seem so long Without the love I reckless cast away; But now I know that I perhaps was wrong, And, dearest, I am brave enough to say: Forgive me! "I did not think that I should say it first, That summer evening when we quarreled so-- I hated you, I know you hated me; But, darling, that seems long and long ago-- So long, and I, oh! I have missed you so! While you, perchance, have shared my silent pain. We both were wrong, but love has conquered pride, Forget the past; let us be friends again-- Forgive me!" "Richmond!" shouted the conductor, and Kathleen roused with a start from her sad musings, and drew her heavy wraps about her, for the opening of the car door had let in a blast of inclement air. It was late in the afternoon--almost twilight--and a long carriage ride was before them; for the Franklyns had written that they lived on the suburbs of Richmond, but would send a carriage to meet Kathleen. Sure enough, a close carriage was in waiting, the driver an old darky who seemed surprised and even displeased that he had two passengers instead of one. "Mistis was only 'specting a lady," he observed. "This is my uncle, who came along to take care of me," Kathleen answered, with assumed cheerfulness, for her heart was beating with a strange suspense and dread. The old negro put her trunk up, and they entered the carriage, and set out on a long ride that did not end until night had wrapped its sable pall of gloom around the earth. "Oh, uncle, how glad I am that you came with me! I should have felt so frightened all alone!" whispered the girl, nestling close to her relative's side. He answered only by a silent pressure of her little hand. He had been strangely moody and silent ever since she had told him the story of her mother's tragic death. The dark, gloomy exterior of the old brick house standing alone in thick, shrubberied grounds was not inviting, but presently the front door opened and a gleam of light stole forth. In its ray there appeared a witch-like old woman huddled in a gray blanket shawl, who stood shivering in the hall while they alighted. "Howdy, granddaughter? Glad to see you!" She gave Kathleen a cold peck on the cheek and peered curiously at her companion. "Who's this? I warn't expecting anybody but you, my dear. Oh, your uncle! Howdy-do, sir? Walk right in, both of you, to the parlor. Folks all out at a party but me. You'll see them in the morning."