"And all these months I have never thought of that. Oh, what was it? Come, tell me, Lucy, dear."
"I—I wanted to go to the poor heathen women in India, some day, you know. I had read how they suffered, and—and it seemed that God was telling me to go. So I got all the books I could about India—to be ready when the time came—and I read, and read, and even began to learn their language."
"Why, Lucy, how could you do that?" exclaims Betty, in the greatest astonishment.
"My music teacher's elder sister came home from India a little while ago, and she told me what books to get from the Library."
"And you did all this, and I never guessed. How stupid—how blind I have been!"
"No—no, Betty. I ought to have confided in you; but, somehow, I couldn't speak of it. I felt it too much, and now it is all at an end," and her sobs break out afresh.
But Betty leans over the bed, and lovingly draws her arm around her sister's neck.
"O Lucy, I feel that you forgive me for my unkindness, but I cannot forgive myself. When shall I get out of the habit of judging too hastily? I can see quite well now that you couldn't tell me your plans, because I was always so full of my own affairs."
"Betty, Betty, that wasn't the reason. You work so hard for all of us—how could I bother you with my hopes and fears?"
"Ah, Lucy! I never met anyone with so much to do, or so many folks to care for as my dear Captain. Yet no one thinks her too busy to listen to their troubles. I must learn to be more like her—to empty my heart of self—then, dear, you will never hesitate to tell me everything."