I could not resist the pleading tones, and I opened the door. Rosamond had been crying as bitterly as myself, and as she came into the room she set down her burden and clasping me in her arms site kissed me and cried again. My tears flowed too, but they were cool tears now, and refreshed my burning eyes. "Dear Rosamond, you won't turn against me, will you?" said I. "No indeed," she answered warmly, and then added, "Of course you know I must think it was wrong for you to keep the book, and to read ever so little, when you knew your mother would not allow it. But every one does wrong sometimes. If we were not sinners, the dear Lord would not have needed to come down and die for us." Somehow these simple words did more to calm my heart, and to show me my sin at the same time, than anything had done before. The dear Lord had died for me, and this was the way I had repaid him. He was ready to forgive me, and yet I would not forgive Betty. I began to see things in a new light. "I know I was very wrong," said I, "and I am sorry—indeed I am. But, Rosamond, it was not so bad. I did not lend Betty the book: I told her she should not have it; but maman called me, and when I came back, she was gone. I have tried again and again to get it out of her hands, and then I meant to burn it up. But what is the use of talking, since nobody will believe me?" "I believe you," said Rosamond; "I believe every word you say. But don't you see that even, then, if you had gone to your mother and laid the whole before her, all this would not have happened? She might have been displeased, 'tis true; but she would have forgiven you and got back the book, and all would have ended well by this time." "It is true," I answered. "I wish I had done as you say." "I think the very most straightforward way is always the best way, especially when one is dealing with one like—like Betty," continued Rosamond. "There is nothing which deceitful people understand so little as truth. But, Vevette, if you are sorry, it will all come right in the end. Let us kneel down and say the fifty-first Psalm together, and I am sure you will feel better." We did so, and then the dear maid repeated the thirty-second Psalm. She was like the holy well at St. Wenna's, which ran with a clear but small stream, while now and then came a great rush of bright water, bubbling up through the white pebbles and showing for a moment the crystal depth below. I had always loved her from the first of our acquaintance, but from that hour began a friendship which will never end. We kissed each other on our knees and then rose. "Do eat a morsel," said Rosamond. "You have had no supper, and you will be ill to-morrow." I tried, in complaisance to her, but I could not manage it. "I cannot eat," said I; "but oh, Rosamond, I am so thirsty." "I will bring you some cool water from the well in the court," said she, and taking a jug, she was gone before I could object. When she came back she looked startled.