bing head and an aching heart upon her snowy pillow, thought the
hours of that bright afternoon and evening very long and very weary. And
yet those hours were full of light, and melody, and fragrance, for the
sun shone, and the sky was blue, the birds sang, and the waters rippled;
even the autumn flowers were giving their sweet, last kisses to the
air. Earth was fair,--why, then, should not human hearts rejoice? Ah!
_Nature's_ loveliness _alone_ cannot cheer the soul. There was once
a day when the beauty even of _Eden_ ceased to gladden two guilty
tremblers who hid in its bowers.

"A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger."
When Margaret Greylston came across that verse, she closed her Bible,
and sat down beside the window to muse. "Ah," she thought, "how true
is that saying of the wise man! If I had only from the first given
John soft answers, instead of grievous words, we might now have been at
peace. I knew his quick temper so well; I should have been more gentle
with him." Then she recalled all John's constant and tender attention
to her wishes; the many instances in which he had gone back from his own
pleasure to gratify her; but whilst she remembered these things, never
once did her noble, unselfish heart dwell upon the sacrifices, great and
numerous, which she had made for his sake. Miss Margaret began to think
she had indeed acted very weakly and unjustly towards her brother. She
had half a mind just then to go to him, and make this confession. But
she looked out and saw the dear old trees, so stately and beautiful,
and then the memory of all John's harsh and cruel words rushed back upon
her. She struggled vainly to banish them from her mind, she strove to
quell the angry feelings which arose with those memories. At last she
knelt and prayed. When she got up from her knees traces of tears were on
her face, but her heart was calm. Margaret Greylston had been enabled,
in the strength of "that grace which cometh from above," to forgive
her brother freely, yet she scarcely hoped that he would give her the
opportunity to tell him this.

"Good-morning," John Greylston said, curtly and chillingly enough to
his sister. Somehow she was disappointed, even though she knew his
proud temper so well, yet she had prayed that there would have been some
kindly relentings towards her; but there seemed none. So she answered
him sadly, and the two sat down to their gloomy, silent breakfast. And
thus it wa