"I want to tell you—" the words came with painful effort—"I must tell you. I've been a coward long enough. I put that book in your drawer."
The utter hopelessness in the voice swept all thought of anger from Blue Bonnet's heart, and flooded it with pity. She could not find voice to speak for a moment.
"You, Joy? You! I can't believe it!"
A look of pride flashed over Joy's face. In that brief second she stood once more on her old ground—trusted, respected.
"I suppose not," she said dully, and the flush died from her face. "No one would have believed me so wicked! They don't know me as I am."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"Tell me about it, Joy, please. I know you didn't do it on purpose. You couldn't have. I never did anything to make you hate me like that."
She went over to the grate and stirring the embers into a ruddy glow drew up a chair and coaxed Joy into it.
"Now we can talk better," she said, sitting down on the hearth rug beside her. "Tell me how it happened. It's been such a mystery to me."
Joy glanced down into the face upturned in the firelight and almost gasped at its serenity. There was not a trace of anger in the eyes lifted to her own—nothing but kindness—and that look, somehow, made it harder to proceed than any torrent of words.