"I dare say he did, but I'm sure he was sorry afterwards. He's thoughtless and selfish, perhaps, but I don't like to hear of your bearing malice in heart, Miss Angel, dear. It's unchristian-like, that's what it is."
"Yes," Angel sighed, "I know, I know!"
"'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,'" Mrs. Vallance quoted. "That's a verse from the Bible we all ought to remember."
"I used not to be so unforgiving," Angel said; "but then Gerald never treated me before as he did last night. I—I can't tell you about it, Mrs. Vallance; but I think if you knew all, you would say he had behaved very badly."
"I have no doubt I should; still, however wrong he was, don't let him believe his sister has turned against him. You must be patient with him. I know you're that, as a rule, but don't let him tire you out. Didn't you tell me once that you had promised your mother to be loving and patient with him?"
"Yes; but I forgot that last night," Angel admitted. "I don't know how it was, but I never felt so wicked before. I couldn't pray—not properly."
"No one can pray properly when angry, Miss Angel."
There was a long pause, which Mrs. Vallance at length broke by saying thoughtfully, "I don't think I ever told you that I lived in service with Miss Goodwin once, did I?"
"No," the little girl replied, rather astonished at this sudden change in the conversation; "was that long ago?"
"Yes, miss. I was a slip of a girl of sixteen when I first went to Myrtle Villa. Miss Goodwin's hair wasn't white at that time, nor her face wrinkled as it is now; but even then her youth had long passed. She's very old, you know, for all she's so quick in her movements, and clear in her intellect in most ways, except that she's forgotten her age, and seems to have lost count of the flight of time. Well, as I was saying, I was only sixteen when I commenced to earn my living, and my mother was so pleased to get me such a good place, for Miss Goodwin was always counted a rare hand for training servants, having been accustomed to have a great many in her young days. Yes," Mrs. Vallance nodded, as Angel's face expressed her surprise, "she was brought up as a rich man's daughter, but after her father's death her brother—an only brother he was—squandered all his money, and most of hers too. Then it was she came to Myrtle Villa to live, and ten years later I went there as maid-of-all-work. I knew Miss Goodwin's brother had always been a worry and trouble to her, and that after spending his fortune he had entered the army as a private, so of course I never mentioned his name to her until one day she spoke of him to me, and told me she had had a letter from some one in India telling her he was dead. What astonished me was that she didn't seem to be grieving, although I knew she had been very fond of him, in spite of his bad ways. 'Oh, ma'am!' I cried, not knowing what to say. 'Is he really dead? Perhaps there is some mistake.' 'Oh no!' she said. 'I will read you the letter.' And so she did. It had been written by an army chaplain; I forget a great deal of what was in it, but I shall always remember one part, which spoke of a message the dying man had sent to Miss Goodwin, and the message was this: 'Tell my sister that the remembrance of her love has taught me to understand the love of God. If she had not forgiven me, I do not believe I could have thought it possible God would.' It was that message which had brought a joyful look into Miss Goodwin's face, and prevented her grieving—the certainty that her love had been stronger than evil, for he had been a bad man, my dear Miss Angel; his sister knew that well, but she had always loved him, and prayed for him, and had patience with him, and though the seas had divided them when he lay dying, yet it had been her influence that had led him to repent and turn to Jesus. The chaplain wrote that John Goodwin had died a humble, repentant Christian, and, as my dear mistress said to me, she had no cause to feel ashamed of him any more. It's an old tale now, my dear, and I've only told it to you to show you how we ought to forgive those who trespass against us. Sometimes it's very difficult, just because those who have injured us are so very dear to us; we feel on that account they ought to have treated us better; but, however that may be, we should never cease to love and forgive."