"There is not much for me to tell, then," said Peg. "I had made up my mind to restore you to your mother. You see, Ida, I've moved," she continued, smiling grimly.
"Oh, Peg," said Ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's misfortunes, "how sorry I am to find you here!"
"Are you sorry?" asked Peg, looking at her in curious surprise. "You haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy; at any rate, one of the worst."
"I can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine compassion. "It must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able to go out into the bright sunshine. I do pity you."
Peg's heart was not wholly hardened. Few are. But it was long since it had been touched, as now, by this warm-hearted pity on the part of one whom she had injured.
"You're a good girl, Ida," she said, "and I'm sorry I've injured you. I didn't think I should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but I do ask your forgiveness."
The child rose, and advancing toward her old enemy, took her large hand in hers and said: "I forgive you, Peg."
"From your heart?"
"With all my heart."
"Thank you, child. I feel better now. There have been times when I have thought I should like to lead a better life."