Was that tears they saw—the haughty Gwendoline in tears?
Yes, tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks, and it was in a broken voice she continued appealingly—
“She would not believe me now, although I were to tell her I loved her. Could none of you make her believe? I cannot bear her to hate me like this!”
Before anyone could speak, the door between the rooms was opened and a figure appeared. It was Linnæa. Her face was radiant and her arms outstretched. Gwendoline looked up, saw her, ran to her, and was clasped in the welcoming arms.
Onlookers were forgotten in that close embrace—words were needless at that moment.
Linnæa drew Gwendoline into the little room, and one of the girls considerately closed the door. For a few moments neither spoke, but each held the other as if at any moment someone might come to separate them. By-and-by Gwendoline said, in a voice quite unlike her usual clear tones—
“Why don’t you hate me instead of treating me like this? You told me you hated and despised me, and I deserve that you should.”
“That was before I knew you loved me at all, dear. What do I care how it was begun, so that you love me now! That is enough for me. Do you know,” she continued, after a pause, “I said I hated you, and I thought so; but now I am not sure that I did all the time. I hated myself, hated the other girls, hated even the teachers; but I am almost convinced I have never hated you!”
Two months passed after that—two happy months for Linnæa and Gwendoline, happy in their mutual friendship—and the summer vacation drew near.
About this time the dream Linnæa had dreamt the first night she saw Gwendoline came true. Her parents wrote to her that if she wished she might come home next autumn, but if she preferred to remain at school another year she might do so. Then Linnæa—she who had looked forward all her life to the time when she would be allowed to go home—wrote and told them she would stay another year.