Angela stared at the earnest little face as if she were dazed, bewildered in a dark place, and groping for light.
"I had no idea he misunderstood me so," she said slowly. "If I'd guessed at the time, I couldn't have resisted telling him how much I loved him. I couldn't have let him go, so wounded. But now, since no happiness can ever come for us together, and perhaps by this time he is getting over his first suffering, wouldn't it be better just to leave the veil of silence down between us? I don't want to hurt him all his life long. It must make it easier for him to forget, if he believes me a 'doll stuffed with sawdust,' or a snob. He can't go on for long loving a poor thing like that. And so he will be cured. Oh, though I long to send him a message—I mustn't. I mustn't be tempted! Let him think badly of me. It's the best and kindest thing."
"No," said Sara Wilkins, "that is not the right way; not for him. It might be with a vain man. But he doesn't get over it. He doesn't stop loving you. Only the pain is worse because he thinks you scorned him. Mrs. May, I implore you to write him a letter. I can't take a message, because he mustn't know I came to see you. It would spoil it all for him, I think. Write as if it were of your own accord. Don't explain in the letter. Letters are such hard, unsatisfactory things. The best one you could write wouldn't make up to him a bit for what he's suffered and what he must go on suffering, for you couldn't help studying your words, and they'd be stiff and disappointing, no matter how hard you tried to say the things just right. Ask him to come here and let you explain in your own words why you seemed so harsh. Only, warn him that it isn't to change your mind about—about saying yes. It would be awful to rush up here happy and hopeful, only to find out—what he'll have to find out."
"You don't understand," said Angela. "I care too much to dare see him again. I couldn't trust myself. I——"
"Ah, but you could trust him. He's strong and high in his nature—like the great redwoods."
"Yes, like the great redwoods," Angela echoed, in a whisper.
"He'd be a rock, too—a rock to rely upon," Sara went on. "Do this, Mrs. May. Do it for my sake. I know it's the right thing. It will give him back his self-respect. That's even more important than happiness, especially to him. I've done all I could for you—not much, but my best. Do this for me, will you?"
"Yes, I will!" Angela answered suddenly and impulsively. She put out her hands to the little school-teacher and drew her close. They kissed each other, the two women who loved Nick Hilliard.