“I’ve been waiting for you, Maria,” she said.

“Have you?” returned Maria, coldly.

“Yes, I wanted to see you, and I didn’t know as I could, unless I met you.  I didn’t know whether you would have a fire in your room to-night, and I thought your aunt would be in the sitting-room, and I thought you wouldn’t be apt to come over to my house, it storms so.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” Maria said, shortly.

Then Lily burst out in a piteous low wail, a human wail piercing the wail of the storm.  The two girls were quite alone on the bridge.

“Oh, Maria,” said Lily, “I did want you to know how dreadfully ashamed I was of what I did last night.”

“I should think you would be,” Maria said, pitilessly.  She walked on ahead, with her mouth in a straight line, and did not look at the other girl.

Lily came closer to her and passed one of her arms through Maria’s and pressed against her softly.  “I wanted to tell you, too,” she said, “that I made an excuse about—­that handkerchief the other night.  I thought it was in my coat-pocket all the time.  I did it just so he would go home with me last.”

Maria looked at her.  “I never saw such a girl as you are, Lily Merrill,” she said, contemptuously, but in spite of herself there was a soft accent in her voice.  It was not in Maria’s nature to be hard upon a repentant sinner.

Lily leaned her face against Maria’s snow-powdered shoulder.  “I was dreadfully ashamed of it,” said she, “and I thought I must tell you, Maria.  You don’t think so very badly of me, do you?  I know I was awful.”  The longing for affection and approbation in Lily’s voice gave it almost a singing quality.  She was so fond of love and approval that the withdrawal of it smote her like a frost of the spirit.

“I think it was terribly bold of you, if you want to know just what I think,” Maria said; “and I think you were very deceitful.  Before I would do such a thing to get a young man to go home with me, I would—­” Maria paused.  Suddenly she remembered that she had her secret, and she felt humbled before this other girl whom she was judging.  She became conscious to such an extent of the beam in her own eye that she was too blinded to see the mote in that of poor Lily, who, indeed, was not to blame, being simply helpless before her own temperament and her own emotions.

“I know I did do a dreadful thing,” moaned Lily.

Then Maria pressed the clinging arm under her own.

“Well,” said she, as she might have spoken to a child, “if I were you I would not think any more about it, Lily, I would put it out of my mind.  Only, I would not, if I were you, and really wanted a young man to care for me, let him think I was running after him.”

As she said the last, Maria paled.  She glanced at Lily’s beautiful face under the veil, and realized that it might be very easy for any young man to care for such a girl, who had, in reality, a sweet nature, besides beauty, if she only adopted the proper course to win him, and that it was obviously her (Maria’s) duty to teach her to win him.