he had gone back from his own pleasure to gratify her; but whilst she remembered these things, never once did her noble, unselfish heart dwell upon the sacrifices, great and numerous, which she had made for his sake.  Miss Margaret began to think she had indeed acted very weakly and unjustly towards her brother.  She had half a mind just then to go to him, and make this confession.  But she looked out and saw the dear old trees, so stately and beautiful, and then the memory of all John’s harsh and cruel words rushed back upon her.  She struggled vainly to banish them from her mind, she strove to quell the angry feelings which arose with those memories.  At last she knelt and prayed.  When she got up from her knees traces of tears were on her face, but her heart was calm.  Margaret Greylston had been enabled, in the strength of “that grace which cometh from above,” to forgive her brother freely, yet she scarcely hoped that he would give her the opportunity to tell him this.

“Good-morning,” John Greylston said, curtly and chillingly enough to his sister.  Somehow she was disappointed, even though she knew his proud temper so well, yet she had prayed that there would have been some kindly relentings towards her; but there seemed none.  So she answered him sadly, and the two sat down to their gloomy, silent breakfast.  And thus it was all that day.  Mr. Greylston still mute and ungracious; his sister shrank away from him.  In that mood she scarcely knew him; and her face was grave, and her voice so sad, even the servants wondered what was the matter.  Margaret Greylston had fully overcome all angry, reproachful feelings against her brother.  So far her soul had peace, yet she mourned for his love, his kind words, and pleasant smiles; and she longed to tell him this, but his coldness held her back.  Mr. Greylston found his comfort in every way consulted; favourite dishes were silently placed before him; sweet flowers, as of old, laid upon his table.  He knew the hand which wrought these loving acts.  But did this knowledge melt his heart?  In a little while we shall see.

And the third morning dawned.  Yet the cloud seemed in no wise lifted.  John Greylston’s portrait hung in the parlour; it was painted in his young days, when he was very handsome.  His sister could not weary of looking at it; to her this picture seemed the very embodiment of beauty.  Dear, unconscious soul, she never thought how much it was like herself, or even the portrait of her which hung in the opposite recess—­for brother and sister strikingly resembled each other.  Both had the same high brows, the same deep blue eyes and finely chiselled features, the same sweet and pleasant smiles; there was but one difference:  Miss Margaret’s hair was of a pale golden colour, and yet unchanged; she wore it now put back very smoothly and plainly from her face.  When John was young, his curls were of so dark a brown as to look almost black in the shade.  They were bleached a good deal by time, but yet they clustered round his brow in the same careless, boyish fashion as of old.