"Indeed? So Thinkright has impressed upon you that open confession is good for the soul, eh?"
"Oh—Thinkright!" ejaculated Sylvia, with a sudden start. "I forgot. It's all wrong to say those things even about one's self."
Judge Trent nodded. "I've heard that contended. Somebody says that self-condemnation is only self-conceit turned wrong side out."
"Yes." Sylvia nodded. "I suppose from any standpoint it's still talking about yourself; but I didn't mean that. He says we mustn't say such things because it fastens the wrong more tightly to us. Of course if we do wrong we have to own it and repent, but,"—Sylvia heaved a great sigh. "That's only the beginning, the easiest part. It's doing differently and not in the old way that's hard,—not thinking and doing jealous, vain, selfish things." She patted the water again thoughtfully.
"Well, give me a hand up, Sylvia. I'm an old dog, but perhaps upon occasion I can bound into the rosy clouds to stroll with you."
Sylvia shook her head knowingly. "If you do bound up you'll find you have struck something more substantial than clouds; and the rose-color may appear,—yes, it is there," she interrupted herself with sudden conviction. "I've perceived it in flashes, but"—her voice sank, and she shook her head again,—"it doesn't seem rosy all the time."
"Well," returned the lawyer, "there's a certain amount of reassurance in the fact that you won't dare detest either me or Miss Lacey."
At the latter name color flashed over the girl's face, and she stretched out her hand impulsively. "Oh, it's so hard to love Aunt Martha," she cried.
The judge pursed his lips, averted his eyes, and rubbed his chin the wrong way.
"I suppose you do," she continued dejectedly.