"Then I am sorry for you," said Dora. "No one can be a good lover who is not a good hater. I would rather have any thing than lukewarmness."
"So would I," replied Amy. "I hope I am not lukewarm; and I am sure I can love some people very dearly,—yes, more than I could ever tell," she added, as she thought of her mamma. "But I don't know whether I could hate; I never met with any one yet to try upon."
"You can't have a better subject than that odious Miss Cunningham. I could not think of her sandy hair, and her ugly unmeaning eyes, for two minutes, without feeling that I hated her."
"Please don't say so, Dora," said Amy, earnestly, "it makes me so sorry."
"Does it? I don't see why you should care what I say; it can make no difference to you."
"Oh yes, but indeed it does, for I think it is not right. I don't mean to vex you," continued Amy, seeing the expression of her cousin's countenance change. "I know you are older than I am, and perhaps I ought not to say it, only I could not help being sorry."
"I am not vexed," said Dora; "but it cannot signify to you whether I am right or wrong. It would be different if it were yourself."
"If it were myself," replied Amy, "I could be sorry for myself, and try not to do wrong any more; but I cannot make you sorry, and so it seems almost worse."
"Make me sorry!" exclaimed Dora, in a tone of surprise. "Of course you can't; but why should you wish it?"
"I always wish every one to be sorry when they do wrong, because, you know, no one is forgiven till they are."