Just as I was leaving, I remembered how kind Miss Richards had been to me through my motherless life; always ready to help me with her advice whenever I needed help, and very patient in listening to the small home worries which had crowded upon me when I first took upon myself the cares and responsibilities of housekeeping.
"Miss Richards," I said, "you have been like a mother to me; I shall never, never be able to thank you enough for all you have been to me."
"Oh no, May," she said, warmly, "you must not speak of that; you have been quite as much, or more to me, dear. You have been a bright sunbeam here, May. You have often brightened my life since I came here."
"Oh, Miss Richards," I said, "I never dreamt that I could make you any happier."
"You did it without dreaming then, dear," she said, smiling; "and, May," she added, "what has passed between you and Claude will make no difference in your love to me, will it? You will still treat me as a friend, and let me hear from you sometimes, won't you, dear?"
"Oh, Miss Richards," I said; "will you let me write to you? Then you are not very angry with me?"
"Angry with you! Why?" she said. "For refusing Claude?"
"Yes," I said, "for giving Claude the answer I did."
"No, dear," said Miss Richards; "I was very much surprised, I own, and very much disappointed. I had counted so much on your influence with Claude, and was building my hopes on it far more than I ought to have done. But since then, May, I have sometimes thought that, perhaps, I ought not to blame you. I felt that I had been looking at the matter entirely from my point of view—mine and Claude's—and that, perhaps, dear, you had a reason for refusing Claude, a reason of which I should not and could not disapprove. May," she said, taking my hand very kindly, "would you mind telling me your reason?"
"I think you know it already, Miss Richards," I said, as I pressed her hand in mine.