“Even though we were such friends always.”
“You never really loved me; I don’t believe it a bit,” was Flossie’s response. “Did you, now?”
“I think I did,” said Nesta; “in a horribly selfish way perhaps.”
“Well, you were fairly generous, that I will say,” continued Flossie, “with regard to your yellow-boy. Anyhow, I’ll try to think kindly of you. Take a kiss and we’ll say no more about it.”
Nesta thought that to kiss Flossie at that moment was one of the hardest things she had to do. But then she was doing a great many hard things just then, and she found as life went on that she had to go on doing hard things, harder and harder each day; a fault to be struggled with each day, a lesson to be learnt, for hers was by no means an easy character. She was not naturally amiable; she was full of self-will, pride, and obstinacy; but nevertheless, that sweet germ of love which Angela had planted in her heart that day down by the river, kept on growing and growing, sometimes, it is true, very nearly nipped by the frosts of that wintry side of her nature, or scorched by the tempests of her violent passions, but nevertheless, the fires of summer, and the frosts of winter could not quite destroy it, for it was watered by something higher than anything Nesta could herself impart to it.
“Nesta is the best of them all,” said Marcia, a long time afterwards to Angela, “and she owes it to you.”
“No,” said Angela, “she owes it to God.”
The End.