"Yes; mamma told me."
"Isn't she good?" went on Candace, impulsively. "I can hardly believe yet that it is true. What makes you all so very, very kind to me, I can't think."
"I haven't been particularly kind," said Gertrude, suddenly. "Candace,—I might as well say it at once, for it's been a good deal on my mind lately,—I wish you would forget how nasty I was when you first came to us."
"Were you nasty?" said Candace, trying to speak lightly, but with a flush creeping into her face.
The Cliffs.
"I shall always love this rock," said Candace.—Page 281.
"Yes, I was; very nasty. I didn't care to have you come, in the first place; and I thought you seemed awkward and countrified, and I didn't like your clothes, and I was afraid the girls here would laugh at you. It was a mean sort of feeling, and the worst thing is that I didn't see that it was mean. I was ashamed of you; but now I am ashamed, dreadfully ashamed, of myself. I felt so much wiser and more knowing than you then; and yet when Georgie, my own sister, got into this dreadful trouble and came to me for help, I had none to give her. I was as much a coward as she was. I gave her bad advice; and it was you, whom I laughed at and was unkind to, who saw what she ought to do, and was brave and really helped. When I think of it all, I feel as if I couldn't forgive myself."
"Why, Gertrude dear, don't!" cried Cannie; for Gertrude was almost crying. "I don't wonder you didn't care for me at first. I was dreadfully awkward and stupid. And you never were nasty to me. Don't say such things! But"—with a shy longing to remove beyond question the doubt which had troubled her—"you do like me now? You are not sorry that I am to stay and live with you?"
"Sorry! No; I am very, very glad. You are the best girl I know. It will do me heaps of good to have you in the house."
"Oh, how delightful!" cried Cannie. "Now I haven't a thing to wish for. It is all nonsense about my doing you good, but I am so glad you want me to stay."