“What is that? my dear.”
“I want you to forgive me.”
“For what?”
“Do you not know—can you not guess? I shut my heart against you; I gave you no true sister’s welcome when you came home.”
“I thought you changed; I was disappointed. Had you ceased to love me?”
“No, no; never that. But I had dreamt so of you—I thought you perfect. I thought you would come back bringing honour and glory; then I was told—I—”
“I see; your love could not stand the shock.”
“No, Owen; my old, poor, and weak love—my idolatry, could not; under the blow it died.”
“Go on, my dear.”
“Owen, can you ever forgive me? I have been cold, unloving, unsisterly. I wonder, now, looking back on it, that you did not hate me!”