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“P.S. Number 2. – I am very glad now that I took your advice. It is heavenly to be emancipated. I wouldn’t be back at that odious school for a kingdom. Do come quickly.”

Armed with these letters, Annie now entered the same little room where she and her uncle had partaken of their supper on the previous night.

Chapter Ten
The Illness

Mr Brooke was not very well. He was subject to very severe headaches, and had at these times to stay quiet. Annie might have noticed by his languid brown eyes and his slow and somewhat feeble step that something was wrong with him, had she not been so absorbed in her own pleasure.

“Good-morning, Uncle Maurice,” she said. “I hope you are hungry for breakfast; for if you are not, I am.”

“I can’t manage much this morning, my love,” said the old rector. “Just a cup of tea, please, and – and – well, yes – a very small piece of toast.”

“Are you ill?” said Annie a little crossly, for she had small sympathy for suffering.

“Not exactly, my love. I have a headache; but it will pass.”

“Oh, if you only knew how I suffered from them at school,” said Annie in a careless tone. “Dear me! isn’t this room too hot, Uncle Maurice? Do you mind if I open the window?”

“No, my love,” he answered. But when she flung wide the window he shivered slightly, although he would not show his discomfort for the world.

Annie helped herself to the excellent breakfast provided by Mrs Shelf. She was really hungry, and was in excellent spirits. Things were turning out well. Even the Rectory would be endurable if she might leave it on Monday. She made a careful calculation in her own mind. This was Friday morning. She would have to go to London on Monday night.

She must sleep at a hotel; that would be all the better fun. Then she would start on Tuesday from Victoria Station and arrive in Paris that night. Nothing mattered after that; all would be golden after that. Her reaping-time would arrive; her harvest would be ready for her to gather. Oh yes, she was a happy and contented girl this morning!

“How nice the home-made bread is!” she said; “and the butter is so good! Have you got Cowslip and Dewlip still, Uncle Maurice?”

“Yes, my dear,” he answered, brightening up at her interest in the Rectory animals; “and Dewlip has such a lovely calf with a white star on her forehead. We have called it after you – Annie. I hope you don’t mind. Mrs Shelf would do it; for she took it into her head that the calf had a look of you.”

“Really, uncle! That’s not a compliment; but I don’t care. I’ll have some of that strawberry jam, if you please.”

“The jam is good, isn’t it?” said Mr Brooke. “It is made from the last crop of strawberries. Mrs Shelf is a first-rate housekeeper.”

Annie helped herself plentifully. She poured rich cream on the jam, and ate with an epicure’s appreciation. At last her appetite was satisfied, and she had time to consider as to when she would break her tidings to Uncle Maurice.

“Are you coming out with me?” she asked. “What are we going to do with ourselves this morning?”

“Well, my love – I am really sorry – it is most unlucky – I haven’t suffered as I am doing to-day – I may say for months. I suppose it is the excitement of having you back again, little Annie; but I really do fear that until my head gets better I must remain quiet. I get so giddy, my darling, when I try to walk; but doubtless by lunch-time I shall be better. You must amuse yourself alone this morning, my little girl; but I have no doubt that Mrs Shelf has all kinds of plans to propose to you.”

Annie stood up. Outside, the garden smiled; but the little room in which they breakfasted, warm enough in the evening, was somewhat chilly now, for it faced due west.

“I do want to talk to you so badly,” she said; “and – can I just have a few words with you between now and post-time? I must write a letter for the post, and I have to consult you about it. I won’t worry you, dear; only the thing must be talked about and arranged, so when shall I come to you?”

“The post goes early from here,” said the rector – “at one o’clock. It is nine now; come to me at twelve, Annie. I dare say I shall be all right by then.”

“All right or not,” thought Annie, “he’ll have to hear my little bit of information not later that twelve o’clock.”

She went out of the room. The rector watched her as she disappeared. He did not know why he felt so depressed and uneasy. His headache was rather worse, and he felt some slight shivers going down his old frame, caused no doubt by the open window.

He left the breakfast-room and entered his study, where a fire was burning, and where, in his opinion, things were much more comfortable. He did not feel well enough to settle down to any special work. He drew up an easy-chair in front of the fire and sat there lost in thought.

His darling was safe at home; the apple of his eye was with him. She was all he possessed in the wide, wide world. There was nothing he would grudge her – nothing in reason; but, somehow, he dreaded the time when she would return and talk to him about that letter which must catch the post. Anxiety was bad for him, and his head grew worse.

Meanwhile Annie, avoiding Mrs Shelf, took her writing materials into the garden, and in the sunniest corner penned a long letter to her friend.

“Of course I am coming, dear Mabel,” she wrote. “I have got to tackle the old uncle at twelve o’clock, but it will be all right. When I have seen him and got the needful, or the promise of it, I will write to Lady Lushington. I am looking forward beyond words to our time together. You need not be uneasy; I will manage the horrid bills. Whatever else your Annie lacks, she is not destitute of brains. Trust to me, dear, to see you through. Oh! I am glad that you appreciate my efforts on your behalf. – Your loving friend, —

“Annie Brooke.”

This letter was just written when Mrs Shelf approached Annie’s side.

“I wonder now, Annie,” she said, “if you would mind riding into Rashleigh to fetch Dr Brett. I don’t like the state your uncle is in. You could have Dobbin to ride; he’s not up to much, but really I think Dr Brett should come. I don’t like Mr Brooke’s appearance. He is so flashed about the face, and so queer in himself altogether.”

Chapter Eleven
The Letter

“I will go, of course,” said Annie, jumping up; “what is the hour, Mrs Shelf?”

“It is a quarter to twelve. You had best go at once; if you don’t delay you will catch Dr Brett when he returns home for lunch. Billy can put the saddle on Dobbin for you, and there’s the old habit hanging on the peg in your bedroom.”

“Detestable old habit,” thought Annie, “and horrid Dobbin, and shocking side-saddle! Oh dear! oh dear! But whatever happens, I must get that letter off immediately.”

“Why are you so slow?” said Mrs Shelf, looking at the girl with great annoyance. “Your uncle wants medical aid, and he ought to have it.”

“I will go, of course,” said Annie, “but not for a few minutes. Don’t fidget, please; I don’t believe there is anything serious the matter with Uncle Maurice. He often has these headaches.”

She went slowly towards the house. Mrs Shelf stood and watched her.

“Well, if there is a heartless piece in the whole of England, it is that girl,” thought the good woman. “What my dear master finds to like in her beats me. If she doesn’t go off immediately for Dr Brett, I’ll put Dobbin to the gig and drive to Rashleigh myself.”

Meanwhile Annie entered the house. Mr Brooke was lying back in his chair, his face flushed, his hands tremulous.

“I am very sorry, my darling,” he said when he saw Annie, “but I have been a little bit faint. It will pass, of course; but poor Mrs Shelf is nervous about me, and wants Brett to be called in. I don’t suppose it is really necessary.”

“Of course it isn’t a bit necessary, uncle,” said Annie. “You are just excited because I have come back. Now do listen to me, darling. Your Annie has such a big favour to ask of you. You must not think it unkind of me to speak of it now, but it is so tremendously important. I will go and fetch the doctor immediately afterwards – I will indeed – if you really want him; but don’t you think you are just a wee bit nervous?”

“No, dear, not nervous,” said the old man. “I am really ill. This attack is sudden, but doubtless it will pass, and I must not be selfish.”

“It is horrid to disturb you when your head aches,” said Annie, “I wish now I had spoken to you this morning. I did not like to when you seemed not quite the thing. I am naturally thoughtful, you know.”

“Yes, yes, my little girl,” he answered, patting her hand. “I shall be well very, quickly now you are back.”

“But, Uncle Maurice, dear – oh, Uncle Maurice! you won’t say no? I have an invitation. I – I —want to accept it. It is from a very great lady. Here it is; can you read it?”

She put Lady Lushington’s letter into the old rector’s hand. He read the words slowly and with apparent calm. Then he laid it on his knee. For a minute there was silence between the two. Annie’s heart was beating hard. At last Mr Brooke said:

“You want to go?”

“I want to go,” said Annie with emphasis, “more than I want anything else in all the wide world.”

“You understand,” said the rector very slowly, “that I am old and not well. This will be a keen disappointment to me.”

“I know, I know, darling Uncle Maurice; but you are so unselfish. You would not deprive your own Annie of her pleasure.”

“No, Annie,” said Mr Brooke, rousing himself, no longer lying back in his chair, but sitting upright; “God knows that I should be the last to do that. You are young, and want your pleasure.”

“Oh, so much! Think what it means.”

“But what sort of woman is Lady Lushington?”

“Uncle Maurice, she is delightful; she is the aunt of my greatest friend, Mabel Lushington, one of my schoolfellows.”

“And yet,” said the rector, “the aunt of one of your schoolfellows may be the last person I should think it desirable to send you to. I pray God to keep me from the great sin of selfishness, but I would not have you spend your holidays with a woman, whom I know nothing about. Before I allow you to accept this invitation, Annie, I must inquire of Mrs Lyttelton something with regard to the character of Lady Lushington.”

“Oh uncle! uncle!”

“My mind is firmly made up, child. I will write to Mrs Lyttelton by this post. If her report is favourable I will give you money to go to Paris – not a great deal, for I am poor, but sufficient. This is all that I can say.”

“But listen, darling uncle. Lady Lushington wants me to meet her at the Grand Hotel in Paris on Tuesday night. You cannot hear in time from Mrs Lyttelton. I shall lose my chance of joining Lady Lushington and Mabel. Oh, do – do be reasonable!”

“Annie, I have made up my mind. I will not give you one farthing to join this woman until I know something about her from one who is at least acquainted with her. My child, don’t be angry; I am absolutely determined.”

“Then you are unkind. It is dreadful of you,” said Annie.

She burst into petulant tears and ran out of the room. Here was a checkmate. What was to be done? She was trembling from head to foot. Her heart was full of anger – such anger as she had not known for years. Mrs Shelf was hovering about outside.

“Oh, what is it?” said Annie. “Why do you follow me?”

“I want you to go at once to fetch the doctor. I have ordered Dobbin to be saddled, and Billy will bring him round to the front door for you. Do rush upstairs and put on your riding-habit. Be quick, child; be quick.”

Annie flew upstairs. The village of Rashleigh was between three and four miles away, for the old parish was a very extensive one, and the Rectory happened to be situated a long way from the village.

Annie had just sprung into the saddle, and was arranging her habit preparatory to riding to Rashleigh, when Mrs Shelf came out.

“Take this to the butcher’s, Annie,” she said, handing the girl a letter, “and be sure you get a receipt from him. Ask him to give you what I have ordered on this piece of paper, and bring it back with you.”

“All right,” said Annie carelessly. She started on her ride. When she had gone a very short way she dropped the reins on the old pony’s neck and began to think. She had never for a single moment expected the obstacle which now stood between her and her desires. She had thought that she could easily get round Uncle Maurice, but she had not really analysed his character. He was unselfish of the unselfish – that she knew; but she had failed to remember that he was a man who was always actuated by the very highest religious principles. He was, in short, unworldly. To do right meant far more with him than to be great and grand and rich and powerful. All those things which to Annie meant life and happiness were less than nothing to Uncle Maurice. Lady Lushington might be the richest and the grandest woman on earth, but if she was not also a good woman nothing would induce him to entrust one so precious as Annie to her care. The rector would make his inquiries; nothing that Annie could do would stop him. Even supposing the result were favourable – which Annie rather doubted, for she knew quite well that Lady Lushington was a most worldly woman – the plans made for her by the great lady in Paris could not be carried out. It was already too late to post a letter to Mrs Lyttelton that day; even if she were still at Lyttelton School, she could not get it before Sunday morning, and her reply, under the most favourable circumstances, could not reach the little old Welsh Rectory until Tuesday morning. But in all probability Mr Brooke’s letter would have to follow Mrs Lyttelton, who had doubtless long before now left Hendon. Mrs Lyttelton’s answer would, therefore, be late, and when it came it would most likely not be what Annie desired. Whatever happened, Mrs Lyttelton would tell the truth; she was the sort of woman who never shirked her duties.

At the best, therefore, Annie could not reach the Grand Hotel in Paris by Tuesday night, and at the worst she could not go at all. Was she, who had sinned so deeply in order to obtain her heart’s desire, to be balked of everything at the eleventh hour? Was Priscilla to have things to her liking? Was Mabel to have a great and royal time? And was Annie to be left alone – all alone – in the hideous Rectory, with one stupid woman to talk to her about preserves and pickles, and one stupid old man? Oh, well, he was not quite that; he was a dear old uncle, but nevertheless he was rather prosy, and she was young; she could not endure her life at the Rectory. Something must be done.

She was thinking these thoughts when she suddenly saw advancing to meet her a gig which contained no less a person than Dr Brett.

“Oh doctor!” cried the girl, riding up to him, “will you please call at the Rectory? How lucky it is that I should have met you! I was going to Rashleigh to leave you a message.”

“Welcome back from school, Miss Annie,” said Dr Brett, a stout, elderly man with a florid face. “Is anything wrong, my dear?” he added.

“I don’t think that there is; but Uncle Maurice is fanciful, and Mrs Shelf more so. Will you just look in and give uncle something to put him right?”

“Of course I will go at once. But, my dear Miss Annie, you are mistaken when you call the rector fanciful; I never knew any one less so. I have often told him that he overworks, and that he ought to be careful. It is in the head that the mischief lies; and he is an old man, my dear Miss Annie, and has led a strenuous life. I am glad that you met me; it will save time.”

The doctor drove away, and Annie’s first intention was to turn her pony’s steps back again in the direction of Rashleigh Rectory, but as she was about to do so her hand came in contact with the letter addressed to Dawson the butcher. She might as well take it on; anything was better than dawdling away her time at the dull Rectory. Then, too, she could post her letter herself to Mabel, adding something to it so as to assure her friend that the question of joining her was only postponed. Besides – but this was an afterthought – there were some things wanted at Dawson’s. Annie again touched the letter, and as she did so her eyes rested on the signature. It was in her uncle’s well-known hand. She was to give this letter to Dawson, and he was to give her a receipt. A receipt meant that he was to acknowledge some money.

Annie’s heart gave a sudden leap. Was it possible that there was money in the letter? She felt the crimson colour rushing to her cheeks; a suffocating feeling just for a minute visited her heart. Then, urging the pony forward, she rode as fast as she could in the direction of Rashleigh.

Chapter Twelve
Her Great Sin

No one would have supposed that Annie Brooke, brought up so carefully by such an uncle as the Rev. Maurice Brooke, would so easily yield to one temptation after another. But it is one of the most surprising and true things in life that it is the first wrong-doing that counts. It is over the first wrong action that we struggle and hesitate. We shrink away then from the edge of the abyss, and if we do yield to temptation our consciences speak loudly.

But conscience is of so delicate a fibre, so sensitive an organisation, that if she is neglected her voice grows feeble. She ceases to reproach when reproach is useless, and so each fall, be it great or little, is felt less than the last.

A few months ago, even in her young life, Annie would not have believed it possible that she could have brought herself to open her uncle’s letter. Nevertheless, a mile out of Rashleigh she did so. Within the letter lay a cheque. It was an open cheque, payable to bearer and signed by the rector. The cheque was for twenty pounds. A bill of the butcher’s lay within. This bill amounted to twenty pounds. The rector, therefore, was sending Dawson, the well-known village butcher, a cheque for twenty pounds to pay the yearly account. It was the fashion at Rashleigh for the principal trades-people to be paid once a year. This twenty pounds, therefore, stood for the supply of meat of various sorts which was used at the Rectory during the year.

Twenty pounds! Annie looked at it. Her eyes shone. “Take this, and you are all right,” whispered a voice. “With this you can easily get off to London, and from there to Paris. All you want is money. Well, here is money. You must write to your uncle when you get to Paris, and confess to him then. He will forgive you. He will be shocked; but he will forgive you. Of course he will.”

Annie considered the whole position. “I have done a lot of uncomfortable things,” she thought. “I managed that affair of the essays, and I used poor Susan Martin’s poems for my purpose; and – and – I have got Mabel into no end of a scrape; it is my duty to see poor Mabel through. This thing is horrid! I know it is. I hate myself for doing it; but, after all, the money has been thrown in my way. Twenty pounds! I can buy some little articles of dress, too. Dawson will cash this for me; oh, of course he will. It does seem as if I were meant to do it; it is the only way out. Uncle Maurice is terrible when he takes, as it were, the bit between his teeth. Yes, I must do it; yes, I will. It is the only, only way.”

Before Annie and her pony had gone another quarter of a mile Dawson’s bill had been torn into hundreds of tiny fragments, which floated away on the summer breeze, and the open cheque in the old rector’s handwriting, with his signature at the bottom and his name endorsing it behind, was folded carefully up in Annie’s purse.

It was a pretty-looking girl – for excitement always added to Annie’s charms – who rode at last into the little village. She went straight to Dawson’s, sprang off her pony, and entered the shop.

Old Dawson, who had known her from her babyhood, welcomed her back with effusion.

“Dear me, now, miss,” he said, “I am that glad to see you! How I wish my missis was in! Why, you have grown into quite a young lady, Miss Annie.”

“Of course,” replied Annie, “I am grown up, although I am not leaving school just yet. Please, Mr Dawson, I want you to give me – ”

She took a piece of paper from her pocket and laid it on the counter. The man glanced at Mrs Shelf’s orders, and desiring a foreman to attend to them, returned to talk to Annie.

“And please,” continued the girl, her heart now jumping into her mouth, “uncle would be so much obliged if you could cash this for him.”

Dawson glanced at the cheque.

“Of course, miss,” he said. “How will you have it?”

“In gold, please,” said Annie.

“I can give you fifteen pounds in gold, miss. Will you take the rest in a five-pound note?”

Annie agreed. Two or three minutes later, with her little parcel of meat put into a basket for her, and twenty pounds in her pocket, she was riding towards the post-office.

There she dismounted, and asking for a sheet of the best note-paper, wrote a line to Lady Lushington. It ran as follows:

“Dear Lady Lushington, – Thank you ever so much for your most kind invitation, which I take pleasure in accepting. My uncle is so glad that you have asked me, and I thank you now in his name as well as my own. I shall be in Paris on Tuesday night, so will you kindly send your maid, as you suggest, to meet me at the railway station? Please give my love to Mabel. – Yours very sincerely and gratefully, Annie Brooke.”

When the letter was finished it was put into a separate envelope from the one which had already been written to Mabel, and then the two were addressed and stamped and dropped by Annie’s own hand into the box of the village post-office. How excited she felt, and how triumphant! Yes – oh yes – she had surmounted every difficulty now, for long before her theft with regard to the cheque had been discovered she would have left the country. She could be agreeable now to every one. She could smile at her neighbours; she could talk to the village children; and, above all things, she could and would be very, very nice to Uncle Maurice.

When she arrived back at the Rectory such a rosy-faced, bright-eyed, pretty-looking girl walked into Mrs Shelf’s presence that that good woman hardly knew her. The sulky, disagreeable, selfish Annie of that morning had vanished, and a girl who was only too anxious to do what she could for every one appeared in her place.

“I met Dr Brett, Mrs Shelf – wasn’t it a piece of luck? – and sent him on to see Uncle Maurice. Has he been, Mrs Shelf?”

“Oh yes, my dear, he has; and I am glad to tell you he thinks that your dear uncle, with care and quiet, will soon be himself again. The doctor thinks a great lot of your being here, Annie, and says that your company will do your uncle more good than anything else in the world. He wants cheering up, he says, and to have his mind distracted from all his parish work. I know you will do what you can – won’t you?”

“Of course I shall,” said Annie. “And here are the things from the butcher’s,” she added.

“It was very thoughtful of you, Annie, to ride on to Rashleigh,” said Mrs Shelf. “I did want these sweetbreads. I mean to make a very delicate little stew out of them for your uncle’s dinner. The doctor says that he wants a lot of building up. He is an old man, my dear, and if we are not very precious of him, and careful of him, we sha’n’t keep him long. There are few of his like in this world, Annie, and it will be a sad day for many when the Lord calls him.”

“Oh, but that won’t be for years and years,” said Annie, who disliked this sort of talk immensely. “Well,” she added, “I will go and sit with uncle now for a bit, and will make his tea for him presently; I know just how he likes it.”

“Do, my dear. You know where his favourite cups and saucers are, and I am baking some special tea-cakes in the oven; and you can boil the kettle yourself, can’t you, Annie? for I shall be as busy as a bee looking after Peggie and the churning. That wench would try any one; she hasn’t a bit of head on her shoulders. And, by the way, Annie, what about the receipt? You paid Dawson, didn’t you?”

Annie was leaving the kitchen. She turned her head slightly. “Dawson will send the receipt,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I was in such a hurry to get back that I didn’t wait for it.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs Shelf, “that is all right; I expect it will arrive on Monday. The cart won’t be here before then, for we’ve got our week’s supply of meat in. It came this morning.”

“Splendid,” thought Annie. “By Monday I shall be away.”

She almost skipped into her uncle’s study. The old man was better already. He was lying back in his chair, and was reading a paper which had come by the afternoon’s post.

“Ah, here you are, my love!” he said.

“Here I am, uncle. I am so glad I met Dr Brett; he has made you better already.”

“He has, child; he always does me good.” Annie drew a chair forward, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. The impatient look had left her face. It looked tranquil and at its best.

“By the way, child,” said Mr Brooke, “you will want me to write that letter for you.”

“You must not worry about it now, really, uncle,” said Annie, laying her hand on his.

“It will do quite well to-morrow – quite well,” she added. “You know that whatever your Annie is, she would do nothing to make you worse.”

“My dear little girl,” said the old man, deeply affected by what he considered such thoughtfulness, “you may be sure that all my thoughts with regard to you are prompted by real love for you. I don’t pretend that I have not looked forward very much indeed to these holidays. Nevertheless, I cannot forget that I am old, my love, and you are young. The young must have their day, dear, and the pleasure of the old is to watch them enjoying it. While you were out I have been thinking over my little money matters, and I think I can quite manage to give you a few extra pounds over and above your fare to Paris – a ten-pound note, perhaps, to buy some pretty little articles of dress.”

“Thank you so much, uncle,” said Annie, speaking in her sweetest tone.

“But my dear child, this will depend altogether on what Mrs Lyttelton says. But I expect the best, dear; for all her girls are nice, and you say that Miss Lushington is your special friend.”

“My very greatest,” said Annie – “a sweet girl – a poetess!”

“Indeed, Annie? She shows gifts at this early age? How very interesting! I am always impressed by young efforts; I like to encourage them. You have not by chance any of her little effusions by you?”

Now Annie had brought poor Susan Martin’s manuscript book with her to the Rectory. She thought for a minute. Would it be safe to show these verses to the Rector? After a minute she said:

“I think I have. I will look in my trunk after tea.”

“Do, my love; I shall be much interested. I used to indulge in verses when I was young myself, dear. Ah, those far-off days! And I had my dreams of greatness too. We all have our little ambitions when we are young. I wonder what yours are, my little Annie.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be clever at all,” said Annie; “I just want to have a good time – and to make you happy,” she added as an afterthought, putting out her small hand and laying it on his.

“Bless you, my darling – bless you! You are the sunshine of my life. Yes – thank God, I am much better this afternoon; that horrid feeling in my head has passed away. It gives me anxiety now and then, but only on your account, my child. As far as I am concerned, I am ready and waiting – only waiting to obey. I have had my warning – most old people have, dear; but for your sake I would live a little.”

“Of course you will live for many, many years longer, Uncle Maurice,” said Annie, rising and kissing him. “And now you are not going to be dismal, or to talk horrid things about – about dying. I am going to give you your tea; you always love the tea that Annie makes for you.”

She flitted out of the room. She was the gayest of the gay during the rest of that evening. She chatted, and laughed, and made herself pleasant to every one; and when Uncle Maurice went to bed, feeling almost quite well again, he thanked God on his knees for having given him so bonny a creature as Annie to be the light and joy of his old age.

Meanwhile Annie herself, seated by her open window, with the moonlight falling full upon her, was counting her money – that money which she had stolen from the faithful and affectionate old man. She put it in rows before her on the table. Fifteen beautiful, bright golden sovereigns; and there was also a five-pound note! The note looked a little dirty and as though it had passed through many hands.

Annie sat by the window and made her plans. Whether her conscience would prick her by-and-by remained to be proved; but on the present occasion it was quite tired out, stupefied by all those things which miserable Annie had done to try it. She felt, therefore, quite at her ease, and made her arrangements with care.

It would not do for her to arrive in Paris before the appointed evening. She had, therefore, the whole of to-morrow to spend at the Rectory, and also the whole of Sunday. Monday, too, might be spent there; and she would have done this but for the fact that the butcher’s cart called on Monday morning, and that Mrs Shelf would notice the absence of Dawson’s receipt. At first, of course, she would not be greatly surprised, and would content herself with writing him a note demanding it. It might be possible, however, that she would go to Rashleigh to see him. In great astonishment, he would ask many questions of Mrs Shelf, and would naturally tell her that Annie had cashed the cheque for twenty pounds.

Annie was positively sure that her uncle would forgive her even so great a sin as this, but she did not want to be in the house when he knew of her guilt. She resolved, therefore, to leave the Rectory on Monday morning, of course first writing a little note to her uncle telling him what she had done – in fact, making her confession to him, and begging him to forgive her.

“There is nothing else for it,” she thought. “I know the dear old man will be dreadfully disappointed, but he will forgive me; I know he will.”