"I understand exactly how you feel, my dear," she said. "You have a
tender heart, and it pains you to hurt anyone's feelings, no matter how
much they deserve to be hurt. Every time I dismiss an incompetent
or dishonest servant I feel that I have done wrong; sometimes I cry,
actually shed tears, you know, and yet my reason tells me I am right.
You feel that you may have been too harsh with that guardian of yours.
You remember what you said to him and forget how hypocritically he
behaved toward you. I can't forgive him that. I may forget how he
misrepresented Malcolm and me to you--that I may even pardon, in
time--but to deceive his own brother's children and introduce into their
society a creature who had slandered and maligned their father--THAT
I never shall forget or forgive. And--you'll excuse my frankness,
dear--you should never forget or forgive it, either. You have nothing
with which to reproach yourself. You were a brave girl, and if you are
not proud of yourself, _I_ am proud of you."
So, when her uncle was announced, Caroline was ready. She entered the
library and acknowledged his greeting with a distant bow. He regarded
her kindly, but his manner was grave.
"Well, Caroline," he began, "I got your letter."
"Yes, I presumed you did.
Pages:
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338