cked the disposition to
add--"and so have you"), "but I never tell a lie. I have _not_ come
after the properties. The only reason for which I have come is to try
and make peace." At this point I gathered up all my strength and
hurried on, staring at the sun till the bushes near us and the level
waste of marsh beyond seemed to vanish in the glow. "I came to say
that I am sorry for my share of the quarrel. I lost my temper, and I
beg your pardon for that. I was not very obliging about Mr. Clinton,
but you had tried me very much. However, what you did wrong, does not
excuse me, I know, and if you like to come back, I'll make a new part
as you wanted. I can't give him Charles's part, or the feather, but
anything I can do, or give up of my own, I will. It's not because of
to-night, for you know as well as I do that I do not care twopence
what happens when I'm angry, and, after all, we can only say that
you've taken the things. But I wanted us to get through these holidays
without quarrelling, and I wanted you to enjoy them, and I want to try
and be good to you, for you are my twin brother, and for my share of
the quarrel I beg your pardon--I can do no more."

Some of this speech had been about as pleasant to say as eating
cinders, and when it was done I felt a sudden sensation (very rare
with me) of unendurable fatigue. As the last words left my lips the
sun set, but my eyes were so bedazzled that I am not sure that I
should not have fallen, but for an unexpected support. What Philip had
been thinking of during my speech I do not know, for I had avoided
looking at him, but when it was done he threw the properties out of
his arms, and flung them around me with the hug of a Polar bear.

_"You_ ill-tempered!" he roared. "You've the temper of an angel, or
you would never have come after me like this. Isobel, I am a brute, I
have behaved like a brute all the week, and I beg _your_ pardon."

I retract my wishes about crying, for when I do begin, I cry in such a
very disagreeable way--no spring shower, but a perfect tempest of
tears. Philip's unexpected generosity upset me, and I sobbed till I
frightened him, and he said I was hysterical. The absurdity of this
idea set me off into fits of laughing, which, oddly enough, seemed to
distress him so much that I stopped at last, and found breath to say,
"Then you'll come home?"

"If you'll have me. And never mind about Clinton, I'll get out of it.
The truth is, Isobel, you and Alice