The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of grief with which they were spoken.
'I assure you I don't wish to be inquisitive,' Alice replied sorrowfully, 'nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, but the last time we met we didn't part good friends. . . . I was merely anxious to assure you that I bore no ill-feeling, but, of course, if you—'
'Oh no, no,' cried May; reaching and catching at Alice's arm she pulled her down into the seat beside her; 'I am awfully sorry for my rudeness to you—to you who are so good—so good. Oh, Alice dear, you will forgive me, will you not?' and sobbing very helplessly, she threw herself into her friend's arms.
'Oh, of course I forgive you,' cried Alice, deeply affected. 'I had no right to lecture you in the way I did; but I meant it for the best, indeed I did.'
'I know you did, but I lost my temper. Ah, if you knew how sorely I was tried you would forgive me.'
'I do forgive you, May dear; but tell me, cannot I help you now? You know that you can confide in me, and I will do any thing in my power to help you.'
'No one can help me now,' said the girl sullenly.
Alice did not speak at once, but at the end of a long silence she said:
'Does Fred Scully love you no more?'
'I do not know whether he does or not; nor does it matter much. He's not in Ireland. He's far away by this time.'