There was no reply; Anne hardly expected any, but Amy raised her eyes, and looked hastily and inquiringly in her face. Anne took courage; perhaps the very fact of Amy's knowing another held her secret might open the floodgates of her heart.
"She hid nothing from Tom; told him all, everything, and is desperately sorry, as well she may be, for all the misery she has caused you."
"As well she may be," repeated Amy.
"She is repentant—truly repentant, Amy."
"I know it; have known it for days past," was the cold reply.
"She begs your forgiveness most humbly."
"I know that also, and have given it."
"She says otherwise, Amy," said Anne, rather puzzled.
"I have forgiven her for my darling's loss. But for the other; if she has dared tell you of it—of her cruelty, I never will. I have said so. Let us talk of something else."
"No, Amy, I must talk of this—only of this. Does not the very fact of her having owned her fault show how sincerely sorry she is. Think of Frances, the proud Frances, sueing for forgiveness; think how miserable, utterly miserable, she must be to stoop to that. How, almost broken-hearted! Surely, Amy, for the sake of her prayers—all our prayers, for the sake of the love your poor Bertie had for her, you will forgive her."