e had made a
horrible mistake somehow--she did not understand how, any more than she
had understood in her childhood how she was always bringing sorrow upon
her aunt.

Miss Gordon came and stood over her. She was once more calm and
self-contained. "I can never forgive you, Elizabeth," she said
deliberately, "until you have become reconciled to Mrs. Jarvis. Go
back to her and beg her pardon for your conduct, and then come and ask
mine."

She gathered up her work, and in her stateliest manner walked from the
room. Elizabeth's first impulse was to fling herself upon the sofa in
a passion of despair, but the remembrance of Eppie saved her. She sat
a few minutes fighting for self-control, and praying for help, the
first real prayer she had uttered for years. When she was sufficiently
calm she went up to the room where Eppie lay with the March sunshine
streaming over her pillow. Her eyes brightened at the sight of
Elizabeth, but instantly the old look of dull despair came back.
"You're a little better to-day, aren't you, dear?" Elizabeth asked,
striving to be cheerful. Eppie nodded. "Yes, I'm better," she said
drearily.

"And it's the loveliest day, Eppie. Why, we have glass trees in the
lane, and it's so sunshiny. If you'll only hurry up and get strong,
you'll be in time to pick the first May flowers that grow down by the
old place."

"I think I'd rather not see it, Lizzie," said the sick girl.
"Grandaddy and me used to talk by the hour about comin' back to Forest
Glen. And I always wanted to get back that bad it made me sick. But
now I think I'd sooner not see the old place, because he can't see it
too."

Elizabeth's forced calm was forsaking her. The tears welled up in her
eyes.

"Ye're not well yourself to-day, Lizzie," whispered Eppie. "What's
troublin'?"

"Nothing you can help, dear," said Elizabeth hastily. "See, I'm going
to get you some milk and then you must sleep." She fled from the room,
and down the hall towards her own little bedroom. At the head of the
stairs she met Mary carrying a covered dish. Mary was not ignorant of
the turn affairs had taken, and her sympathy was all for her sister,
for she would have welcomed any disaster that brought Lizzie home.

"I've made Eppie a custard," she said comfortingly. "I'll give it to
her and you can go to see Mother MacAllister--she'll help." There was
a secret bond of sympathy between the sisters that enabled Mary to
divine that whatever