There was a pause of some moments; then Mary replied:
"I promised one of the girls that I'd wear it. She asked me to. She wanted to see it."
"Did you tell Hannah this?"
"No, ma'am. It wouldn't have been any use. She never hears to reason."
"But you'll find me very different, Mary," said Mrs. Arnold, tenderly. "I shall ever be ready to hear reason."
All this was so far from what Mary had anticipated, that her mind was half bewildered. Her step-mother's clear sight penetrated to her very thoughts.
Taking her hand, she drew her gently to her side. An arm was then placed lovingly around her.
"My dear child,"—it would have been a hard heart, indeed, that could have resisted the influence of that voice, "let us understand each other in the beginning. You seem to look upon me as an enemy, and yet I wish to be the very best friend you have in the world. I have come here, not as an exacting and overbearing tyrant, but to seek your good and promote your happiness in every possible way. I will love you; and may I not expect love in return? Surely you will not withhold that."
As Mrs. Arnold spoke thus, she felt a slight quiver in the hand she had taken in her own. She continued:
"I cannot hope to fill the place of your dear mother, now in heaven. Yet even as she loved you, would I love you, my child." The voice of Mrs. Arnold had become unsteady, through excess of feeling. "As she bore with your faults, I will bear with them; as she rejoiced over every good affection born in your heart, so will I rejoice."