He looked at Laura.  She was before her easel, as of old; but the pale nun had given place to a blooming girl, who sang at her work, which was no prim Pallas, but a Clytie turning her human face to meet the sun.

“John, what are you thinking of?”

He stirred as if Di’s voice had disturbed his fancy at some pleasant pastime, but answered with his usual sincerity,—­

“I was thinking of a certain dear old fairy tale called ‘Cinderella.’”

“Oh!” said Di; and her “Oh” was a most impressive monosyllable.  “I see the meaning of your smile now; and though the application of the story is not very complimentary to all parties concerned, it is very just and very true.”

She paused a moment, then went on with softened voice and earnest mien:—­

“You think I am a blind and selfish creature.  So I am, but not so blind and selfish as I have been; for many tears have cleared my eyes, and much sincere regret has made me humbler than I was.  I have found a better book than any father’s library can give me, and I have read it with a love and admiration that grew stronger as I turned the leaves.  Henceforth I take it for my guide and gospel, and, looking back upon the selfish and neglectful past, can only say, Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!”

Laura echoed Di’s last words; for, with eyes as full of tenderness, she looked down upon the sister she had lately learned to know, saying, warmly,—­

“Yes, ‘Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!’ I never can forget all you have been to me; and when I am far away with Philip, there will always be one countenance more beautiful to me than any pictured face I may discover, there will be one place more dear to me than Rome.  The face will be yours, Nan,—­always so patient, always so serene; and the dearer place will be this home of ours, which you have made so pleasant to me all these years by kindnesses as numberless and noiseless as the drops of dew.”

“Dear girls, what have I ever done, that you should love me so?” cried Nan, with happy wonderment, as the tall heads, black and golden, bent to meet the lowly brown one, and her sisters’ mute lips answered her.

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.”