Lucilla made only one appeal to her.
“Flossie, won’t you tell me what’s happening? I can’t help knowing that you’ve been very unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy now,” said Flora quickly. “At least, not like I was before. You know I’ve put myself absolutely under father’s direction, Lucilla? How wonderful he is!”
“He has made you happier?”
“Not he himself. He has shown me where to find peace, at last.”
“If you mean Church, I should have thought you’d known about it ever since you were born, very nearly.”
If the faint hint of impatient derision latent in her sister’s tone was perceptible to Flora, she showed no resentment at it.
She flushed deeply and looked earnestly at Lucilla.
“I wish I could make you understand. But some things are too sacred to be described, even if one could. The only thing I can say is that I was unhappy, I felt I was wasting my life, and that nobody cared. And I was full of remorse for a wrong I had done. I can’t tell you what it was, Lucilla, nor anyone else, ever, and I can’t undo it, now, but at least I can expiate it, and all my other failings.”
“Expiation?” Lucilla spoke the word unenthusiastically. “But if you can’t undo whatever it was you did—and really, Flossie, I can’t believe it was anything so very desperate—will it be a good plan to go on being miserable about it for the rest of your life, all to no purpose?”