Margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from Joe for John, who, when he had read it, coloured and said, “Papa, perhaps you will read it aloud, I cannot.”

It was as follows:—­

  DEAR JOHN,

I have been, as you must have seen, very unhappy and very cross since my accident; I have had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge, and to you.  I have not felt as though I could forgive you, and I have often told Emilie and Edith this; but they have not known how wickedly I have felt to you, nor how much I now need to ask your forgiveness for thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions.  Often, as I saw you run out in the snow to slide or skate, I have wished (don’t hate me for it) that you might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might know a little of what I suffered.  Thank God, all that is passed away, and I now do not write so much to say I forgive you, for I believe from my heart you only meant to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your thoughtless mischief to me.  Will you all believe me, too, when I say that I would not take my past, lonely, miserable feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active boy on earth.  Emilie has been a good friend to me, may God bless her, and bless you all for your patience and kindness to.

  JOS.  WHITE.

Pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, I cannot indeed.  I am not unhappy, but since my illness my spirits are weak, and I can bear very little; your kindness has been too much.

  J.W.

The contents of the little box were now displayed.  It was the only costly present on that Christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love.  The present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre, bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with these words, which Emilie had suggested, and being a favourite German proverb of hers.  I will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it was engraved.  She had written the letter containing the order for the plate to a fellow-countryman of hers, in London, and had forgotten to specify that the motto must be in English; but never mind, she translated it for them, and I will translate it for you.  “Friede ernaehrt, unfriede verzehrt.”  “In peace we bloom, in discord we consume.”  The inkstand was for Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and the slip of paper said it was from their grateful friend, Joe White.  That was the secret.  Emilie had kept it well; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but no matter, she had taught them all a German phrase by the mistake.