"I—I—I have," Roger answered slowly. "I didn't think I could, but I have. I couldn't say, 'Our Father' if I hadn't. And, look here, don't talk any more about it—that will help me to forget."
"Oh, Roger!" There was amazement and a world of thankfulness in Edgar's eager voice. "I've been so mean, so cowardly," he said deprecatingly, "and you—you're such a brick!"
"Oh, shut up!" Roger responded impolitely, with a yawn. "Do lie down and go to sleep. I'm going back to bed, I'm getting quite cold. What are you doing?" he cried, as the other flung his arms around his neck and, in a transport of gratitude, kissed him upon the cheek. "I don't know what's come to you to-night," he continued when his cousin released him and he retreated towards the door. "What do you think the boys at school would say if they saw you do that? We're not girls. I shan't tell Polly; but—mind you don't do it again."
"I won't," Edgar promised. "I don't know what made me then, only I felt I must because—because you're been so awfully good to me."
Then as Roger's white-clad figure stole out of the room, and he was alone once more, he lay himself back in bed thinking that surely this cousin of his was the noblest, most generous boy in the world. He had not deserved Roger's forgiveness, that he knew well; he had been treated far, far better than he had deserved.
[CHAPTER XXII]
AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE
It was wonderful how quickly Edgar improved in health and spirits after his arrival at the Mill House. In a very few days he was able to join his cousins in their amusements, and showed no sign of spoiling their pleasure as they had feared he would do. Surely some great change had taken place in the boy to make him so different from the old Edgar, who had set his own pleasure above every other consideration, for now, though the selfishness he had cultivated so long peeped out occasionally, he was evidently trying to check it, and—a more difficult task still—he was earnestly endeavouring to be straightforward in word and deed. Much to his relief no one mentioned the subject of the Calais Noble, not even Polly, who, however, made him give her a description of his accident, afterwards remarking that it could have been actually no worse than a nightmare such as she had frequently experienced herself when she had dreamt of falling over a precipice and had awakened to find herself safe in bed.
"Yes, it was just like that," Edgar replied, "only I awoke with a frightful headache. Wasn't I surprised to see Cousin Becky there! Mother says she shall never be able to repay her for her kindness to me."
"And yet Aunt Janie wouldn't ask her to stay at the Rookery when she wrote about coming to Beaworthy," Polly reminded him, for she had an excellent memory. "Cousin Becky belongs more to us than she does to you, Edgar, you must see that," she added; and her cousin did not argue the point.