“I am not crying!” Patricia wiped two large tears from her cheeks. “What did she do? She tried to kill herself. If it had not been for you, I should have been a murderess!”
“Patricia, don’t say such dreadful things! And what have I to do with it?”
“You kept me from going to sleep!” said Patricia curtly. “You little thing—” Patricia laid her hands on Honor’s shoulders, and held her at arm’s length a moment. “You little thing!” she repeated. “You have saved me, as well as Maria!”
“Oh, Patricia!” faltered Honor, her own eyes bright with tears. “What was it? was it poison?”
“Charcoal! The poor creature must have taken some from Margoton’s brazier. Mercifully she didn’t know enough to stop up the keyhole between her room and mine. I smelt it, and then I saw a thin blue thread come creeping through the keyhole; and then—all in a minute I knew! Hark! the Sister calls us. Honor, I can’t talk about it, but I never shall forget this night!”
Honor was almost awe-stricken as Patricia pressed a warm kiss on her cheek; Patricia, who never kissed any one. She returned the caress shyly, but tenderly, and hand in hand the two entered Maria’s room.
Soeur Séraphine’s lovely face was more nearly stern than they had ever seen it. She was sitting on the bed, Maria’s hand in hers. She addressed the two girls gravely.
“Here we have,” she said, “one who has sinned and repented. Her first sin was not grievous, as it appears to me; her repentance was deep and sincere, but it has not been accepted—save by thee, my little Honor! Thy part in this affair has been all that I could wish. Patricia, of thee I would ask, art thou entirely without sin thyself?”
“No, my Sister!” Patricia’s voice was low, her eyes were bent on the floor.
“Thou art right. Pride, vain glory, envy—no, perhaps not that!” as Patricia made an involuntary movement; “hatred, malice and all uncharitableness. Of these thou hast been guilty; is it not so, my child?”