“Good-morning, Violet,” she said, coolly, sinking into a chair. “So you are in your right mind again, and can realize what a cruel wrong you did me that night?”
“Wrong!” echoed Violet, in surprise.
“Yes, in what you told Cecil Grant about me. I did not say he was false to you. You either dreamed it all, or imagined it in your delirium, for you were always crying out that Cecil loved Amber best, and that you did not want to live.”
“I do not remember any such fancies,” Violet answered, with incredulous blue eyes.
“Of course not, for people never remember the ravings of fever. But you fancied it all, Violet, for I never mentioned Cecil to you that night; and you did me a cruel wrong in telling Cecil that I did. He was my friend before, but you turned him against me by your cruel story.”
Her assurance staggered Violet’s belief in her own memory.
She had been so ill, she had suffered so much, that her brain was still a little dazed and uncertain. Was it possible she had dreamed it all—that Amber was not cruel and wicked, as she seemed?
Amber saw the doubt in the sweet, lovely face, and hastened to add:
“You see now that you were wrong, Violet.”
“Was I, Amber? Then I am very, very sorry. Will you forgive me?” sweetly.