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Then Laura looked up, saying, playfully,–

“Here are the good and wicked sisters;–where shall we find the Prince?”

“There!” cried Di, pointing to John; and then her secret went off like a rocket; for, with her old impetuosity she said,–

“I have found you out, John, and am ashamed to look you in the face, remembering the past. Girls, you know, when father died, John sent us money, which he said Mr. Owen had long owed us and had paid at last? It was a kind lie, John, and a generous thing to do; for we needed it, but never would have taken it as a gift. I know you meant that we should never find this out; but yesterday I met Mr. Owen returning from the West, and when I thanked him for a piece of justice we had not expected of him, he gruffly told me he had never paid the debt, never meant to pay it, for it was outlawed, and we could not claim a farthing. John, I have laughed at you, thought you stupid, treated you unkindly; but I know you now, and never shall forget the lesson you have taught me. I am proud as Lucifer, but I ask you to forgive me, and I seal my real repentance so–and so.”

With tragic countenance, Di rushed across the room, threw both arms about the astonished young man’s neck and dropped an energetic kiss upon his cheek. There was a momentary silence; for Di finely illustrated her strong-minded theories by crying like the weakest of her sex. Laura, with “the ruling passion strong in death,” still tried to draw, but broke her pet crayon, and endowed her Clytie with a supplementary orb, owing to the dimness of her own. And Nan sat with drooping eyes, that shone upon her work, thinking with tender pride,–

“They know him now, and love him for his generous heart.”

Di spoke first, rallying to her colors though a little daunted by her loss of self-control.

“Don’t laugh, John,–I couldn’t help it; and don’t think I’m not sincere, for I am,–I am; and I will prove it by growing good enough to be your friend. That debt must all be paid, and I shall do it; for I’ll turn my books and pen to some account, and write stories full of dear old souls like you and Nan; and some one, I know, will like and buy them, though they are not ‘works of Shakspeare.’ I’ve thought of this before, have felt I had the power in me; now I have the motive, and now I’ll do it.”

If Di had proposed to translate the Koran, or build a new Saint Paul’s, there would have been many chances of success; for, once moved, her will, like a battering-ram, would knock down the obstacles her wits could not surmount. John believed in her most heartily, and showed it, as he answered, looking into her resolute face,–

“I know you will, and yet make us very proud of our ‘Chaos,’ Di. Let the money lie, and when you have made a fortune, I’ll claim it with enormous interest; but, believe me, I feel already doubly repaid by the esteem so generously confessed, so cordially bestowed, and can only say, as we used to years ago,–‘Now let’s forgive and forget.'”

But proud Di would not let him add to her obligation, even by returning her impetuous salute; she slipped away, and, shaking off the last drops, answered with a curious mixture of old freedom and new respect,–

“No more sentiment, please, John. We know each other now; and when I find a friend, I never let him go. We have smoked the pipe of peace; so let us go back to our wigwams and bury the feud. Where were we when I lost my head? and what were we talking about?”

“Cinderella and the Prince.”

As he spoke, John’s eye kindled, and turning, he looked down at Nan, who sat diligently ornamenting with microscopic stitches a great patch going on, the wrong side out.

“Yes,–so we were; and now taking pussy for the godmother, the characters of the story are well personated,–all but the slipper,” said Di, laughing, as she though of the many times they had played it together years ago.