"Have I been sleeping, Aunt Hepsy?" she said. "You don't know how
well I feel. I could almost get up, I think."
Aunt Hepsy laughed a little tremulous laugh.
"In about a month or so, I guess, you'll begin to think about getting
up," she said; and again something in Aunt Hepsy's face set Lucy
wondering _what_ was different about her. There was a short silence,
then Aunt Hepsy laid down her knitting, and took both Lucy's thin
hands in her firm clasp. "Lucy, do you think ye can ever forgive yer
old aunt?" she said suddenly and quickly. "I've been a cross,
hardhearted old fool, an' the Lord's been better to me than I dared
to hope for. He's heard my prayers, Lucy, an' he knows how hard I
mean to try and make up for the past. If ye'll say ye forgive me, and
try to care a little for me, ye'll maybe find Thankful Rest a
pleasanter place than ye think it now."
"O Aunt Hepsy, don't say any more," pleaded Lucy, her eyes growing
dim. "I'm so glad I've been sick, because you've learned to love me a
little."
So the barrier was broken down, and in the ensuing days these two
became very dear to each other; and Lucy grew to understand Aunt
Hepsy, and to see how much good there lay beneath her grim exterior.
The door of Aunt Hepsy's heart had long been locked, and like other
unused things, had grown rusty on its hinges.
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