“Huh! ‘And gentleness of the dove,’ why don’t you add?” sneered Eleanor, unkindly.
“I didn’t think it necessary to add that with you, as you should be aware of my gentleness in handling this delicate situation. As long as you fail to appreciate my good intentions it may be that you will understand bluntness better.”
Miss Miller waited but Eleanor made no reply, so she added:
“When do you intend telling May and the others about the theft?”
“How dare you say that to me!” cried Eleanor, trying to be furiously insulted.
“Because I dare to stand for the truth. I have waited many days now, and offered you many good opportunities to admit your deed, but you seem farther from doing the right thing than ever. Do you know that the hiding of any wrong thing is a hindrance in itself to one’s progress?”
“I shall turn in this side street unless you mind your own business!” flared Eleanor, looking down the uninviting dark road. “You may do that but you cannot run away from your own self-condemnation and conscience. And I know from the signs that you have shown, that the trouble is preying upon your mind and making of you a most petulant, disagreeable being. Rid yourself of the error and see the uplifting you will feel at once.”
Whether it was the yearning in Miss Miller’s voice or the answer to her earnest silent prayer for guidance, it matters not, for both were sweet to the Father’s ear, and Eleanor again felt the surging desire to reform and build up a different character for herself.
Quite unexpectedly, she turned and threw her arms about the Guide’s neck and wept forth: “Oh, if I could only see the girls this very minute—here in the dark—I would be so happy to confess.”
“Eleanor, do you really mean that?” asked Miss Miller, her voice quivering with hope and joy.