hand, she came on till she stood before her rival and, offering the
flowers, said, in words as simple as sincere, "Dear Mrs. Snowdon, I
cannot let the last sun of the old year set on any misdeeds of mine for
which I may atone. I have disliked, distrusted, and misjudged you, and
now I come to you in all humility to say forgive me."

With the girlish abandon of her impulsive nature Octavia knelt down
before the woman who was plotting to destroy her happiness, laid the
roses like a little peace offering on her lap, and with eloquently
pleading eyes waited for pardon. For a moment Mrs. Snowdon watched her,
fancying it a well-acted ruse to disarm a dangerous rival; but in that
sweet face there was no art; one glance showed her that. The words smote
her to the heart and won her in spite of pride or passion, as she
suddenly took the girl into her arms, weeping repentant tears. Neither
spoke, but in the silence each felt the barrier which had stood between
them vanishing, and each learned to know the other better in that moment
than in a year of common life. Octavia rejoiced that the instinct which
had prompted her to make this appeal had not misled her, but assured her
that behind the veil of coldness, pride, and levity which this woman
wore there was a heart aching for sympathy and help and love. Mrs.
Snowdon felt her worser self slip from her, leaving all that was true
and noble to make her worthy of the test applied. Art she could meet
with equal art, but nature conquered her. For spite of her misspent life
and faulty character, the germ of virtue, which lives in the worst, was
there, only waiting for the fostering sun and dew of love to strengthen
it, even though the harvest be a late one.

"Forgive you!" she cried, brokenly. "It is I who should ask forgiveness
of you--I who should atone, confess, and repent. Pardon _me_, pity me,
love me, for I am more wretched than you know."