"I want to set you right on one point," Doris said quietly; "I did not tell grandfather you had had anything to do with the gipsies."
"Oh, Doris, I thought you did!" Felicia cried, distressed beyond measure to think she should have misjudged her cousin; "of course I know you said you wouldn't, and I ought to have known you wouldn't break your word, but—oh, do forgive me for distrusting you and believing you had!"
"I have nothing to forgive. I—I have behaved very badly, for I heard grandfather speaking of your having been to the common, and I never told him why you went; he would not have been angry if he had known the true facts."
"You could not tell that."
"Yes; I—I misled you. I knew grandfather would never send you to boarding-school; he is much too fond of you. I frightened you about it intentionally; and—and I allowed him to believe you had purposely disobeyed him when I might have set the matter straight for you."
"It was very unkind of you," Felicia said with deep reproach in her tone; "I wouldn't have behaved like that to you."
"No, I know you would not have," Doris admitted. It had cost her a great effort to make her confession, though she had spoken so calmly, and now the tears which had been gathering in her eyes overflowed and ran down her cheeks. "The night of the storm when no one knew where you were, I felt dreadful about it," she proceeded less steadily; "grandfather came to see if you were here, and he said he had been harsh with you on account of your having disobeyed him, and I was afraid to tell him then why you had done so; he would have asked me why I had not told him before, and—and I was afraid."
The sight of the other's emotion was too much for Felicia. She flung her arms around her cousin's neck and kissed her.
"Forget all about it," she said generously; "I will try to, too. I know you have never liked me—"
"It has been all my wicked, jealous temper," Doris broke in; "you don't know what it is to have a temper like mine, it spoils everything for me."