"No. Not yours. It was hers I spoke about," interrupted Lady Longridge.
"Well, hers, then. Did you never think what my mother must feel when not a word of answer reached her? And you are getting so old—forgive me for saying it; and surely if there has been ill-will between you and mother, it is time to forgive one another, and be friends."
"Friends with Florence! Never! And I have told the truth. I never opened one of her letters, so that I might say that I knew nothing, and tell no falsehood. The letters are there to prove it."
"Let me have them, grandmother. Do give them to me!" pleaded the girl.
"Take them, if you like, but take them somewhere else, and do not let me see your face again. I had meant to do something for you, but now you shall not have a penny of mine. I will burn my white will to-day, and send for Melville about the blue one."
"The letters, grandmother, please, the letters!"
"You shall have them. They will pay you well for what this affair will lose you. Take this key. In that little drawer are the letters unopened. Mind, you choose between those and more than you know of."
Without hesitation Margaretta took the key, emptied the little drawer of its contents, and then returned it to Lady Longridge, who said, "Get out of my sight, and do not trouble me again!"
"Good-bye, grandmother. I am sorry you are angry, but I could not help speaking. I forgive you. You have been hard sometimes, but I shall try to forget the pain you have caused me about my dear mother. I am glad I can forgive, or I should not dare to ask that my trespasses might be forgiven. Thank you for having me taught by dear Mrs. Moffat."
"Go!" screamed the old lady. "Go, and do not preach to me. I never wish to see you again."