"I shall never, never forgive myself so long as I live," murmured I, a sob rising in my throat; "but if you do not forgive me, Joyce, I think I shall die, Joyce."
"Poor Meg!" murmured my sister at last, and then the lump that had been rising in my throat broke into a sob, and the tears rushed to my eyes.
For a moment I could not speak. I got rid of my tears as well as I could, and looking at her, I saw, yes, thank God! I saw that her eyes were wet too.
"Can you forgive me, Joyce?" I faltered. "Yes, I think you can. You are good enough."
"Forgive you!" echoed she, faintly. And her sweet mouth breaking into the tremulous smile that was its familiar ornament, she added, "Dear, you have been unhappy too."
They were few words, but what more perfect expression of tenderest forgiveness could there be? I wanted no more. I knew there was no bitterness, that there never would be any bitterness, in my sister's heart towards me.
There was no one in the waiting-room, mother had gone out onto the wharf with the strange lady; I put my arms round Joyce's neck, and drew her face down to mine. "God bless you!" I said, reverently, and I think for the first time in my life I felt what the words meant.
"It's all for the best, dear," added she, gently, leaning her cheek against my hair. "You know we never really do alter things that are going to happen by anything we do. It's arranged for us by a wise Providence." It was the simple faith that had always guided her life; it had often annoyed my more impetuous and self-willed spirit, but it did not annoy me now; there was a soothing in it.
But there was no time for further speech; mother came back again, it was time to go on board. I busied myself with the luggage and with talking to Joyce's escort—a kindly, good-natured couple—and left mother and daughter together.
The parting was over all too quickly, and we were left standing on the wharf alone, mother and I, watching the big black mass steer its way slowly among the crowd of shipping, watching the tall black figure on the deck until, even in imagination, it faded from us, and we looked but on the interminable rows of black masts against the lurid sunset of a bleak winter evening.