“All is right: all is well; is it, Hester? And I was quite wrong throughout. I grieve now that I helped to make you miserable: but, indeed, I was miserable myself. I saw no hope; I was completely mistaken.”
“We were both mistaken,” said Hester, resting her head at Margaret’s shoulder. “Mistaken in judgment,—blinded by anxiety. But all that is over now. Margaret, what have I done that I should be so happy?”
“You have loved one who deserves such a love as yours,” said Margaret, smiling. “That is what you have done: and you will have the blessings of all who know you both. You have mine, dearest.”
“What an ungrateful wretch shall I be, if I do not make every one happy that is within my reach!” cried Hester. “Margaret, I will never grieve his heart as I have grieved yours. I will never grieve yours again.”
“But how is it?” asked Margaret. “You have not told me yet. Is it all settled?”
A silent embrace told that it was.
“I may shake hands with you upon it, then. Oh, Hester, after all our longings for a brother, you are going to give me one! We are not alone in the world. My father,—our mother,—where are they? Do they know? Have they foreseen while we have been suffering so? Do they now foresee for us?”
“There was not one word of his,” said Hester, “that I should not have gloried in their hearing. So gentle, Margaret! so noble! so calm!”
“And you?” said Margaret, softly. “Did you speak—speak openly?”
“Yes: it was no time for pride. With him I have no pride. I could not have believed how I should tell him all: but he was so noble,—spoke so gloriously,—that it would have been an insult to use any disguise. He knows all that you know, Margaret,—and I am not ashamed.”