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“But does it seem to you right that you should do so?”

“It does when I lose sight of myself, and think of Maria as standing to another in the same light that she really stands to me.”

“I am glad that you have thus separated your own feelings from the matter; that is the true way to view every subject that has regard to our actions towards others. Go, then, to your estranged friend on this mission of peace, and I know that the result will be pleasant to both of you.”

“I am fully convinced that it is right for me to do so; and more, I am fully resolved to do what I see to be right.”

About an hour after the closing of this interview, Louisa called at the house of her friend. It was some minutes after she had sent up her name before Maria descended to the parlour to meet her. As she came in she smiled a faint welcome, extending at the same time her hand in a cold formal manner. Louisa was chilled at this, for her feelings were quick; but she suppressed every weakness with an effort, and said, as she still held the offered hand within her own–

“There must be something wrong, Maria, or you would never treat me so coldly. As I am altogether unconscious of having said or done any thing to wound your feelings, or injure you in any way, I have felt constrained to come and see you, and ask if in any thing I have unconsciously done you an injury.”

There was a pause of some moments, during which Maria was evidently endeavouring to quiet her thoughts and feelings, so as to give a coherent and rational response to what had been said; but this she was unable to do.

“I am a weak and foolish girl, Louisa,” she at length said, as the moisture suffused her eyes; “and now I am conscious that I have wronged you. Let us forget the past, and again be friends as we were.”

“I am still your friend, Maria, and still wish to remain your friend; but in order that, hereafter, there may be no further breach of this friendship, would it not be well for you to tell me, frankly, in what manner I have wounded your feelings?”

“Perhaps so; but still I would rather not tell the cause; it involves a subject upon which I do not wish to speak. Be satisfied, then, Louisa, that I am fully convinced that you did not mean to wound me. Let this (kissing her tenderly) assure you that my old feelings have all returned. But do not press me upon a point that I shrink from even thinking about.”

There was something so serious, almost solemn in the manner of the young lady, that Louisa felt that it would be wrong to urge her upon the subject. But their reconciliation was complete.

So much interest did Mrs. Appleton feel in the matter, that she called in, during the afternoon of the same day, to see Louisa.

“Well, it’s all made up,” was almost the first word uttered as Mrs. Appleton came in.

“I am truly glad to hear it,” replied that lady.

“And I am glad to be able to say so; but there is one thing that I do not like: I could not prevail upon her to tell me the cause of her coldness towards me.”

“I am sorry for that, because, not knowing what has given offence, you are all the time liable again to trespass on feelings that you desire not to wound.”

“So I feel about it; but the subject seemed so painful to her that I did not press it.”

“When did you first notice a change in her manner?”

“About a week ago, when we were spending an evening at Mrs. Trueman’s.”

“Cannot you remember something which you then said that might have wounded her?”

“No, I believe not. I have tried several times to recall what I then said, but I can think of nothing but a light jest which I passed upon her about her certainly coming of a crazy family.”

“Surely you did not say that, Louisa!”

“Yes, I did. And I am sure that I thought no harm of it. We were conversing gayly, and she was uttering some of her peculiar, and often strange sentiments, when I made the thoughtless and innocent remark I have alluded to. No one replied, and there was a momentary silence that seemed to me strange. From that time her manner changed. But I have never believed that my playful remark was the cause. I think her a girl of too much good sense for that.”

“Have you never heard that her father was for many years in the hospital, and at last died there a raving maniac?” asked Mrs. Appleton with a serious countenance.

“Never,” was the positive answer.

“It is true that such was his miserable end, Louisa.”

“Then it is all explained. Oh, how deeply I must have wounded her!”

“Deeply, no doubt. But it cannot be helped. The wound, I trust, is now nearly healed.” Then, after a pause, Mrs. Appleton resumed:

“Let this lesson never be forgotten, my young friend. Suppose you had followed your own impulses, and let Maria ‘pout it out,’ as you said; how much would both she and yourself have suffered–she, under the feeling that you had wantonly insulted and wounded her; and you, in estranged friendship, and under the imputation, unknown to yourself, of having most grossly violated the very first principles of humanity. Let the lesson, then, sink deeply into your heart. Never again permit any one to grow cold towards you suddenly, without inquiring the cause. It is due to yourself and your friends.”

“I shall never forget the lesson, Mrs. Appleton,” was Louisa’s emphatic response.