“And my daughter,” Senator Bonair said tenderly.
“And a sweet, lovely creature!” Marie added frankly.
“Well, upon my word!” cried Rosalind, in frank anger and amazement. She realized that Berenice was forgiven; worse still—beloved.
An insane anger took possession of her, and she longed to strike every one in the face. It seemed to her, in her fury, that she could kill them.
Her anger gave way to hysterical sobbing, and then the sisters fell to soothing her tenderly and explaining how it all came about.
The senator had retreated, frowningly, at the first signs of hysterics, so the three were all alone, and the sisters felt it was the time to give good advice.
“Oh, Rosalind, you will have to give in and be very friendly, or papa will be displeased with you,” they said. “And, after all, it will be better to have peace in the family, don’t you think so? For even if poor Charley lives, he and his wife will never intrude on you, unless you invite them, you know. But now, in the face of death, papa will not love you as well if you do not forgive.”
It was a bitter pill for Rosalind, but she knew they were still her friends, and she did not care to antagonize them until she gained her point.
She sobbed dismally a moment or two, then lifted a piteous face, and murmured:
“Then I must try to forgive my enemies, for your father is the only friend I have in the world now, and if he turns against me I am all undone.”