wounded at first, yet she quickly forgave.

By the time she had smoothed out her sheet, and settled matters
between it and her blanket, she had begun to think more coolly. "No,
no, I won't. It would be horribly dishonourable and all that to tell
Aunt Barbara. Josephine was only thinking out loud; and she can't
help what she thinks. I was very naughty; no wonder she thought so.
Only next time she pets me, I will say to her, 'You cannot deceive
me, Josephine; I like the plain truth better than honeyed words.'"

And now that Kate had arrived at the composition of a fine speech
that would never be made, it was plain that her mind was pretty well
composed. That little bit of forgiveness, though it had not even
cost an effort, had been softening, soothing, refreshing; it had
brought peacefulness; and Kate lay, not absolutely asleep, but half
dreaming, in the summer twilight, in the soft undefined fancies of
one tired out with agitation.

She was partly roused by the various sounds in the house, but not
startled--the light nights of summer always diminished her alarms;
and she heard the clocks strike, and the bell ring for prayers, the
doors open and shut, all mixed in with her hazy fancies. At last
came the silken rustlings up the stairs again, and the openings of
bed-room doors close to her.

Kate must have gone quite to sleep, for she did not know when the
door was opened, and how the soft voices had come in that she heard
over her.

"Poor little dear! How she has tossed her bed about! I wonder if we