It was not the words, but the tone, the manner, that convinced him he was forgiven. He sat down beside her, and there, in the deepening twilight of that spring evening, what a holy happiness was rising over the ruins of wickedness and crime! Who shall say how much holier, purer, and more elevated for the trying ordeal to which it had been subjected?
CHAPTER XXII.
"To all and each a fair good-night,
And rosy dreams and slumbers bright."
We are winding to a close. In the delicious coolness of a summer evening, Aunt Patty sat upon her lowly stile, her head drooped pensively on her withered hand, as if absorbed in deep meditation. The sound of approaching footsteps aroused her, and directly a light form was at her side, while a soft voice whispered in her ear: "You are thinking of one from whom I bring tidings."
It was Netta Wild, accompanied by her husband, who carried a small package in his hand.
"Ay, yes! true, Netta, I was thinking of Annie," said the old woman, rising, and beckoning them to enter, while she bustled about and lighted a candle. "So you have brought me news of her?" she continued. "I always know when I'm going to hear from hinny, for I'm thinking and dreaming about her all the time for three or four days before the tidings come."
"You should have had bright visions of late, Aunt Patty, if they are to tally with the truth," said Netta. "Annie has won the prizes."
"Has she? Do tell!" exclaimed the old woman, her face glowing with pleasure.
"Yes, and here are the magazines containing the articles," answered Netta, untying the package; "but this is the smallest part of her good fortune; there's better news yet to be imparted, Aunt Patty. Sit down here close beside me while I read this letter,—it is for both of us, she says."