"Certainly. I am glad, very glad, to have you."
"That is kind, Cousin Joyce; kinder than I deserve. I am come to make a confession, Joyce; I have been very unkind to you. Will you forgive me?"
"I do not understand. You have done nothing," said Joyce, amazed at the visit, words, and look of her cousin, who had taken her hand, and was holding it between both her own.
"Perhaps I have not done much, after all," she said; "but one has often as much cause to grieve for the not doing what is right and kind as for active unkindness. Cousin Joyce, I have had a revelation to-day. I have had a peep at my own heart and life, and I am dissatisfied with both, especially in connection with yourself. When you spoke to my mother this morning and told her what you were going to do, how you had made up your mind to leave the only relatives you have in the world, because under their roof you had a shelter, not a home, I felt so sorry for you, so ashamed for ourselves. It was your birthday morning. You are twenty-one to-day. I was the same four months ago, and then my mother did not know how to lavish enough of costly things upon me. I had cards—works of art that had cost pounds; flowers in profusion, letters, messages, callers, jewellery, finery of all kinds, and a grand evening party given in my honour. And you, Cousin Joyce, had nothing but the coldest greeting, and an offer of our secondhand and third-best clothes. Please let me finish—" for Joyce would have stopped the confession half-way. "I do not know how it was brought about, but I seemed to see everything you had endured under this roof from the day of your coming. No welcome, no sympathy, no home, no friends."
"Yes, my uncle has always been kind, and I have had Sarah Keene. Besides, I was but a stranger who had to win the affection of strangers, though they might be relatives; and I really believe you care for me after all!" cried Joyce, looking up into Adelaide's face, and smiling through the tears which her cousin's words had brought to her eyes. "Forgive me, Adelaide. I want forgiveness, too, for I have judged you rather hardly, I am afraid."
"No, you have not; I have never been kind, but I want to be now." And two pairs of arms went out, and two girls' lips met for the first time in mutual affection and forgiveness. Then they sat down side by side, each encircling the other with one embracing arm.
"We shall be friends as well as cousins for the future. Until now, we have been neither," said Adelaide. "I wish you were not going away, Joyce. If you will stay, I will try to make The Chase more of a home to you than it has been. But how can you, after what mamma said this morning? I think that proposal about the dresses and your helping to alter ours was too dreadful."
And the girl blushed with shame at the recollection.
"I should not have minded about working early and late if you had wanted help and we had worked together," said Joyce. "If any one here had been ill, I should have thought nothing too much to do for them, night or day. Supposing that my uncle had been poor, and had given me a home with his children, I would have slaved for him and them most cheerfully, and taken care that his kindness should have cost him nothing in the end. But you are all rich, and every wish can be gratified; and the thought of being sent to sew under the orders of Russell was—"
"Hush, dear Joyce! I cannot bear it," interposed Adelaide, as she laid her white hand on her cousin's lips. "That alone would have driven you from us, and after what mamma said, you cannot stay. Now you must show you have forgiven me by taking this little birthday gift," and drawing a ring-case from her pocket, Adelaide tried to place a beautiful ring on Joyce's finger.