"Oh, it's too absurd, Sylvia—honestly. Sometime when we're quite old ladies I'll tell you,—that is, if you'll forgive me without my confessing now. Of course if you won't,"—Edna's eyes besought her friend merrily,—"I shall have to; but really I want to beg off."
"You have something important to tell me," said Sylvia, "something besides that."
"Two things. I didn't sleep at all last night for two reasons: one was for happiness, the other for regret that I had hurt you."
It was, then, as Sylvia had surmised. What reason was there for feeling such shock? Had she not always been prepared for this, and been waiting for it?
"Oh, I can't bear to have you look so frozen, Sylvia." Edna suddenly took her friend's hand. "I do apologize sincerely for yesterday, and I am going to tell you what no one else knows or will know for some time, owing to the strange circumstances. The mail last evening brought my father's consent to my marrying the man I love. I'll not tell you more about it yet, except that he is an Englishman, and we had almost despaired of winning over my parents. What? Not a word, Sylvia?" For the blue eyes gazed, and the parted lips were stiffly mute. After a minute warmth began to flow back into the younger girl's face. The hand Edna held began to return its pressure.
"I am happy for you," said Sylvia, and the two smiled into each other's eyes.
"Happy enough to forgive me on trust?" asked Edna.
"Yes," answered the other slowly; but the question her heart and pride were asking must be expressed.
"Does—does Mr. Dunham know what idea it was that made you reproach me yesterday?"
"John?" Edna laughed. "Oh, dear, no."