‘No indeed,’ replied Sissy. ‘He told me that I might come in now, but he sent me away from the room this morning—or at least—’
She hesitated and stopped.
‘At least, what?’ said Louisa, with her searching eyes upon her.
‘I thought it best myself that I should be sent away, for I felt very uncertain whether you would like to find me here.’
‘Have I always hated you so much?’
‘I hope not, for I have always loved you, and have always wished that you should know it. But you changed to me a little, shortly before you left home. Not that I wondered at it. You knew so much, and I knew so little, and it was so natural in many ways, going as you were among other friends, that I had nothing to complain of, and was not at all hurt.’
Her colour rose as she said it modestly and hurriedly. Louisa understood the loving pretence, and her heart smote her.
‘May I try?’ said Sissy, emboldened to raise her hand to the neck that was insensibly drooping towards her.
Louisa, taking down the hand that would have embraced her in another moment, held it in one of hers, and answered:
‘First, Sissy, do you know what I am? I am so proud and so hardened, so confused and troubled, so resentful and unjust to every one and to myself, that everything is stormy, dark, and wicked to me. Does not that repel you?’