“I am so wretched—so unhappy!” she cried.
“Yes, yes, as if I could not see and feel it,” whispered Elisia. “There, there,” she continued, as she drew the yielding form closer to her breast, and smoothed and caressed the soft, fair hair, till Isabel’s sobs grew fewer, and she looked up half wonderingly, and then clung to her more tightly as Elisia bent down and kissed her lovingly.
“There,” she whispered, “was that the kiss of an enemy?”
“No, no, no,” cried Isabel. “I did not mean it. I tried not to say it, but you seem to—seem to—oh, pray don’t think of what I said!”
“I shall not. I did not mind, for I felt that some day you would know the truth. How could you think that I would be anyone’s enemy! It is my misfortune that I am not liked. I have tried to satisfy your aunt, but she resents my presence here.”
“Yes,” said Isabel naïvely, as she clung more closely to her comforter. “She thinks you are taking her place, and that—”
She stopped short.
“Yes, dear,” said her companion gently; “and—what?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Then I will tell you, dear,” said Elisia sadly. “She thinks that I am a deceitful, scheming woman, who tries to lead your brothers astray from the path your father has mapped out for them.”