The clock struck nine. Miss Jerusha, who, from time immemorial, had made it a point of conscience never to sit up a moment later, began folding up her work. Georgia, who was standing with her elbow resting on the mantelpiece, her forehead dropped upon it, and her luminous eyes filled with a deep joy too intense for smiles, fixed on the green boughs on the hearth, now came over, and, to the great surprise of the venerable spinster, knelt down before her, and put her arms caressingly around her waist.
"Miss Jerusha," she said, softly, lifting her dark, beautiful eyes to her wrinkled face.
"Well, Georgey," said Miss Jerusha, in a subdued tone of wonder.
"It is nearly six years since you first took me here to live, is it not?" she asked.
"Nearly six yes," said Miss Jerusha.
"And since then I have been a very wild, wayward, disobedient girl; repaying all your kindness with ingratitude, have I not?"
"Why, Georgey!"
"I have been passionate, stubborn, and willful; saucy, impertinent, and ungrateful; I know I have, I feel it now. You were very good to take the poor little orphan girl, who might have starved but for you, and this was your reward. Oh, Miss Jerusha! dear, best friend that ever was in this world, can you ever forgive me?"
"Oh, Georgey!" said Miss Jerusha, fairly sobbing.
"I am sorry for what I have done; say you forgive me, Miss Jerusha," said Georgey, sweetly.