“That’s nice,” said May, with a sigh of content. “I wish I had been born such a girl as you. Always so calm and grave. I was so different. I used to feel, and I am sure of it now, that I was like one of the pretty little boats out there at sea, with the great white sails, that are blown over sometimes for want of ballast. I never had any ballast, Claire, and that made me giddy.”
“Had you not better be silent now, May dear?” whispered Claire.
“No. Perhaps I may not be able to talk to you again, and I should like to tell you everything that is in my mind.”
“May, dear!” cried Claire, kissing her lovingly.
“You forgive me, then?” sighed May. “I’m glad of that, for I want a deal of forgiving—here—and there,” she added, after a pause.
“Which may come the easier, dear, for a life spent in repenting what is past.”
“Yes; that would be easy, Claire, easy enough; but it is better as it is with me. I should be so weak and foolish again if I got well.—Claire.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Has poor Louis been seen again?”
“No: not since that night.”