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And the trial came.

It came that very morning about twelve o’clock, and it was brought by the “boy” from the Vicarage, in the shape of a note to mamma, from Miss Gale, senior – that is Anna’s aunt – asking if her niece might call for me on her way to the Yew Trees that afternoon, and walk there with me, as it was not convenient to send a maid with her. There was no question of its being much of a favour on my side. Old Miss Gale, as I called her, seemed quite comfortably assured that it would be a pleasant arrangement for all parties. I was with mamma when the note came; I saw there was something wrong, and I insisted upon her telling me what it was. I listened in silence. Then I broke out: “I won’t go with her; I say I won’t” I exclaimed loudly. “You may just write and say so, mamma.”

But at that moment papa put his head in at the door. I had not known that he was in the house.

“What is all this?” he said, and his face and his voice were as I had never seen them before. Mamma explained, as gently as she could, of course, and so as to throw the least possible blame on me.

“It is rather trying for Connie, you see, Tom,” she finished up.

“And does Connie expect never to be tried?” he answered, sternly. “Why are you to be exempt from the common lot?” he went on, turning to me. “Where is your principle, your boasted superiority – yes, child, you may not exactly say so in words, but you do think yourself superior to others,” he went on, seeing that I was about to interrupt him – “if at the very first little contradiction you are to lose your temper, and forget yourself so shamefully? You have no right to feel it a contradiction even – it is only proper and natural that Anna should sometimes share your pleasures.”

“Then I won’t go,” I said sulkily; “I will stay at home Anna may have the Whytes all to herself.”

Papa looked at me. It was like the waiting for the thunderclap one knows must come.

“If you do not go, and, what is more, behave like a lady, I shall tell the reason in plain words to Captain and Mrs Whyte, and leave them to judge if you are a fitting associate for their children.”

I said nothing more. I knew I must give in. I had met with my master! Mamma was nearly crying by this time, but I was not the least sorry for her, I was only angry. I turned and left the room, saying as I did so, in a cool, hard voice, that I hardly recognised as my own:

“Very well. I will be ready in time.”

Chapter Nine.
The Strange Old Woman

It was a good thing for Anna’s own comfort that afternoon that she was not of a very observant nature, otherwise she would certainly not have found me either a pleasant or courteous companion. I was obliged to obey papa, and I dared not be positively rude to her, but beyond this I was determined not to go; the very feeling of having been forced to give in made me the more bitter and the more inclined to resent my grievances on her, the innocent cause of them. But Anna had never been accustomed to overmuch civility from me; even as quite little children I had treated her as if it did not matter how she was treated. And she only smiled placidly at my vagaries, and doubtless said to herself that “poor little Connie was very spoilt.”

We had seen each other very rarely of late, and then generally with the Whytes, so I don’t think it struck Anna as at all strange that I walked on beside her in grim silence, scarcely even condescending to notice her few amiable commonplace remarks. Poor child! her head was always full of home cares; I think it must have been a treat to her even to walk along quietly without a lot of “little ones” tugging at her skirt.

“It is a nice day,” she observed for about the fifth time. “The boys have gone to Belton Woods. I hope aunt won’t let Prissy go with them, however; she is sure to catch cold if they stay late. November evenings are so chilly.”

“I should think you’d be rather glad for some of them to catch cold sometimes,” I said. “It must be a blessing to have a few quiet in bed.”

Anna stared at me, then a smile broke over her rather dull face.

“How funny you are, Connie!” she said. “No, I think they’re quite as noisy in bed as anywhere else, except when they’re really very ill, and that, of course, is no laughing matter. But they’re all well just now, and really to-day is like September: it is a nice day.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s one of our nicest autumn days. If – if only some things were different,” I added to myself.

We were by this time in the lane, which, after crossing the fields, was the nearest way to the Yew Trees. This lane ran into the high road too, so any one coming to the Whytes’ had to go some way along it. Just as I spoke – we had climbed over a stile into the lane – I saw coming towards us, as if going to the Yew Trees from the road, a very curious figure. It was that of a small old woman. She seemed a little lame, yet she walked pretty fast. But I did not like her look at all; indeed, as she came nearer and I saw that her face was almost hidden by a lace veil of a very heavy pattern, and that she had a wig of very black and shiny curls, falling on each side of her cheeks, I felt almost frightened, I scarcely knew why. She had a long cloak of rusty black silk, and a queer brown fur “pelerine” – I think that is the old-fashioned name for such things. And she seemed to have sprung up so suddenly, that I almost felt as if I was fancying her. For the first time that afternoon I turned to Anna with a sort of friendliness.

“Anna,” I said, “do look. Who can that queer woman be?”

“A tramp,” Anna began to say. We were used to tramps of all kinds, but still this description hardly suited the person now closely approaching us. A thought crossed my mind – could it be one of the Whyte boys dressed up to frighten us? But no; they never played such tricks.

“It must be one of those tiresome old things from the Marley almshouses,” I said. Marley was a village about five miles off. “I know how they pester papa. He is far too good to them. Very likely she thinks the Whytes are new-comers, and that she’ll get something out of them.”

And no longer frightened, but rather disgusted, I prepared to walk on, when suddenly a sharp, almost imperious, voice bade me stop.

“Please to tell me if this is the way to the Yew Trees,” it said. “The Yew Trees – a cottage where Captain Whyte has come to live. Don’t you hear me, child – can’t you speak?” For I had been at first too startled to answer; and then, as I took in the meaning of the old woman’s words, I grew angry. What right had she to call the Yew Trees – mamma’s own old house, which would be my house some day – “a cottage”? And what business had she to speak to me so sharply – “child,” indeed – a dirty old tramp, or, worse, a cheat, a begging-letter impostor, or something of that kind, to speak to me so? For she was addressing me and not Anna, who was a little behind me.

“I don’t see that I am obliged to answer every beggar in the road who may happen to speak to me,” I said, very rudely, I must confess. For queer as she was, the old woman was plainly not a common beggar.

She came closer.

“Beggar,” she repeated, “beggar indeed!” Then she gave a horrid mocking little laugh. But suddenly she controlled herself again. “Be so good as to tell me where Captain Whyte’s cottage is.”

“It isn’t a cottage. It’s a large house,” I said. “I should know, considering it’s mine, or as good as mine.”

She started a little, then eyed me curiously.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I might have guessed it. Then you are one of the Whyte children; let me see – not the eldest?”

“No; I’m not the eldest. But I don’t see what business it is of yours who I am. Let me go,” – for she had laid her hand – it was covered with an old black kid glove much too large for her – on my sleeve; “let me go,” I said, as I felt her holding me more firmly. “You may save yourself the trouble of going on to the Yew Trees. Captain Whyte and Mrs Whyte wouldn’t speak to you.”

“Indeed,” she said with a sneer, “I can quite believe it, to judge by their daughter’s pretty manners to a poor tired old woman. I could not have believed it of – He was proud, but you are insolent, I can tell you. It’s as well, perhaps, but I wish I hadn’t met you, with your fair hair and pretty eyes, just like – Have they never taught you to show respect to age, young lady? I suppose you think yourself a lady?”

“You are insolent,” I said, stamping my foot in fury.

“How dare you – get away you dirty old tramp, or I’ll send for the police.”

But at that moment, while the old woman positively glared at me through her veil, Anna, who had not yet spoken, came close and whispered something in my ear, “I daresay she’s insane,” Anna said; “you know there’s an asylum at Wichthorpe. She may have escaped. You should never provoke mad people, Connie.”

And she turned to the stranger, and spoke to her gently. “I think you would get any information you want in Elmwood better than here,” she said. “Captain and Mrs Whyte have not been here so very long. And – and I think they’re rather busy to-day.”

The old woman turned to her. She looked at Anna for a moment or two without speaking.

“Thank you,” she said. “I have changed my mind; I have no wish to pay the Whyte family a visit. I – I think I’ve had enough of them. And who are you, pray?” she went on. “You have a civil tongue in your head at least.”

“I’m – my father’s the Vicar of Elmwood,” said Anna, very frightened, but not daring not to reply. “He’s Mr Gale – if you want anything, I daresay he could help you. You could ask for the Vicarage.”

“No, thank you; but I’m obliged. Yes, I’m obliged to you,” said the queer creature. Then she turned and walked rapidly back the way she had come. We lost sight of her, of course, when she turned into the road; but a moment or two afterwards we heard wheels, and looking right on to the end of the lane, we saw a fly drive rapidly past. We looked at each other.

“Dear me,” said Anna, “it’s just as if the fly had been waiting for her.”

“Nonsense,” I said roughly; “an old beggar like that.”

“I don’t think she was exactly a beggar,” said Anna. Nor did I, at the bottom of my heart.

“Then she was mad, as you said yourself,” I rejoined. “But listen, Anna; don’t tell them about her at the Yew Trees. I don’t want Yvonne’s birthday spoilt any more. Do you hear, Anna? – you’re not to tell.”

Anna hesitated. “I don’t see that it would spoil the birthday,” she said; “and perhaps – ”

“It would spoil it to me,” I said, “if you care about that. Of course you’d tell them I was rude to the old woman, and they’d be all down upon me. I don’t deny I was rude; I’ve been too vexed by other things to be in a good temper.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Anna, her kind heart at once touched. “No, I won’t say anything about it then. The only thing was – are you sure it isn’t anything that matters? Suppose she really had some message for Captain or Mrs Whyte?”

“We didn’t stop her going on if she had. At least I only told her they wouldn’t be bothered with her, and you said they were busy to-day. That wouldn’t have stopped her if it was anything real.”

“N-no, I suppose not,” said Anna. She was very slow at seeing things, and I could generally overrule her, in the first place, any way. So, though she was plainly not quite satisfied, she gave in.

I felt a little conscience-stricken myself, to own the truth. I knew I had behaved inexcusably to the strange old woman, and the consciousness of this made me gentler and more conciliatory, so to speak, than I might otherwise have been. So the birthday party went off peacefully, and on the whole, pleasantly, though somehow not as merrily and cheerily as was usual with the Whytes’ simple festivities. Evey was very pleased with the monogram brooch, so pleased that I could afford not to feel jealous when she warmly thanked Anna for her present of a neat and well-made, but extraordinarily ugly, toilet-pincushion. And I was able heartily to admire the other presents, all from her own family, and mostly of home manufacture.

“Evey’s best present hasn’t come yet,” said Mary. “It’s a post late somehow.”

“It’s sure to come this evening,” said Evey, hopefully.

“Papa’s going to walk in to the post-office to see; you know we don’t get afternoon letters unless we send for them. And there’s sure to be a letter too; indeed, that’s almost what we care most for.”

“But what is the present?” I asked curiously. “Whom is it from? And is it always the same thing? And why do you care so for a stupid letter?”

Yvonne hesitated. She and Mary looked at each other.

“I am sure you may tell Connie,” said innocent Mary.

“Well,” said Evey, “I can tell part any way. The present, that we call my best present,” she went on, “comes from my godmother, papa’s aunt. It isn’t always the same, but it’s always something very nice and useful. Last year it was two muffs and four pairs of gloves, for me to do what I liked with; so of course I gave one muff and two pairs of gloves – we take the same size, you know – to Mary. And this year we were half hoping it might be jackets.”

“What stupid presents,” I said. “I don’t care a bit for clothes presents.”

“But then you’re different; things are quite different for you, Connie,” said Evey.

“I know,” I replied, with self-satisfaction. “But if it was jackets, Evey, they couldn’t come by post.”

It was before the days of parcel-post.

“No, but the letter telling of them would be coming. And it mightn’t be jackets.”

“Why do you care so for the letter?” I asked.

“Oh, because it pleases papa and mamma so. Papa hasn’t seen her for ever so long, though she almost brought him up – but – there were things – I don’t think I can tell you any more,” she broke off, and of course I could not ask any more questions after that. But I had a vaguely uneasy and anxious feeling, especially a little later in the evening, when Captain Whyte returned, dispirited and tired.

“It’s beginning to rain,” he said. “Evey dear, your birthday is not ending as brightly as it began; however – ”

“There was no letter?” said Mrs Whyte.

He shook his head.

“It may come to-morrow morning still,” he replied. But I saw that they all seemed disappointed.

Anna Gale and I went home as we had come, with the addition of Peters, our old gardener, as escort. It had left off raining again, and there was some faint moonlight struggling through the clouds. Mamma had meant to send the brougham, but papa had been suddenly summoned to a distance, and as the evening was fine after all, she thought we might walk, by the road of course. As we got to the end of the lane, the scene of that afternoon came back to our minds. I did not want to think of it, but Anna would speak about it.

“I wonder,” she said – fancy Anna “wondering” about anything – “I really wonder who she was.”

“Oh, rubbish,” I said. “Who could she be but some old lunatic?”

“Well,” said Anna, “if she were, it isn’t very nice to think of.”

I faced round upon her.

“Now, Anna, you’re not to go talking about it, for I know it would sound as if I had been horrid to her, and perhaps I was; I don’t pretend to be an angel. But I don’t want any fuss – do you hear, Anna?”

“Yes,” she said, “of course I hear you, Connie.”

“Well, then, will you promise?”

“I’ll promise not to speak about it if I can help it,” she said; and with that I had to be content.

I don’t quite know why I was so anxious that no one should hear of our adventure. I was not, after all, so very ashamed of my behaviour to the old woman; not as ashamed as I should have been. But I had an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling – I just wanted to forget all about it.

I did not see Yvonne and Mary for some days after that; the next morning was showery, though it cleared up between times. But after that, the rain set in, and we had a week or two of almost constant downpour, which interfered very much with our usual ways. They came to spend an afternoon with me at last. Mamma arranged that the carriage should both fetch them and take them back, for the roads were really sopping, though the rain overhead was less incessant. We were very glad to be together again. Evey wore my little brooch; it reminded me of her birthday.

“Oh, by-the-by,” I said to her, “did your jackets, or whatever it was, come the next day?”

A cloud came over their bright faces.

“No,” said Evey, “nothing came – and no letter. We were very disappointed.”

“Perhaps something will come at Christmas instead,” said Mary, hopefully.

“You greedy little thing,” I said, thoughtlessly. “I wonder you care, especially if it was something to wear.”

“You – you don’t quite understand, Connie,” said Mary, her eyes filling with tears; “there was no letter, and father and mother mind that.”

“Letters are often lost in the post. Why don’t you write to the old lady,” – what was it that gave me a queer thrill as I said the words? – “and ask if there is anything the matter?” I said, meaning in a clumsy way to suggest some comfort.

“We can’t,” said Yvonne, in a low voice.

But they explained no more, and I was not sorry. I did not want to spoil our afternoon by disagreeable subjects.

Christmas came. The day after, there was a large gathering at Lady Honor’s, as there had been the year before. Captain and Mrs Whyte would not leave their own home on Christmas-day itself, as they did not like to separate from any of the little ones; but Mr Bickersteth was not satisfied without a Christmas party, so it was arranged to have it on the 26th. A good many Whytes came; all, down to the three youngest, I think. Papa and mamma and I were of the party too. Mr and Miss Gale, Anna and her two brothers from school, and two or three people staying with Lady Honor. It was a very nice party, and everything was done to make it so; but somehow it was not quite so merry as it should have been. Mrs Whyte, who was generally the life of everything, looked tired, and owned to a headache for once; Captain Whyte was very silent, and the boys and girls were rather subdued.

In the course of the evening, during some of the games, I happened to be standing near Lady Honor and Captain Whyte, and I could not avoid hearing what they said.

“Did you know, Frank,” asked Lady Honor, “that Hugo is expected back next week?”

He started.

“No, indeed,” he said. “I had no idea of it.”

“I only heard it this morning,” she went on, “in a letter from – ” I did not catch the name. “He is not well – coming on sick leave, straight to – your aunt’s.”

Captain Whyte looked grave. Still there was a touch of something not altogether regret in his voice as he answered:

“I am very sorry, very – but, oh, I should be glad to see him again; and, selfishly speaking, just now – ” he hesitated and glanced round. At that moment I was called for in the game, and I ran off and heard no more.

“I wonder who ‘Hugo’ is,” I thought, “and if his aunt is the Whytes’ jacket-aunt too.”

Chapter Ten.
The Look on Papa’s Face

A week or two after, papa came in one day just as mamma and I were finishing luncheon, looking rather grave.

“I am very sorry for the Yew Trees people,” he said; “I’ve been there this morning to see Addie. I’m afraid he’s in for bronchitis, poor little chap, and troubles never come singly. Captain Whyte has heard that a favourite cousin of his – a Major Hugo Whyte, who has just come home from India – is very ill. He says he is like a brother to him, and he’s very cut up.”

“Is he going to see his cousin?” mamma asked.

“N-no; there seem other difficulties, family complications. He was going to tell me more, but we were interrupted. Lady Honor sent for Captain Whyte in a hurry. I hope there’s nothing wrong there. I don’t know what’s coming to everybody.” Papa, usually so cheerful, looked rather depressed. “The Whytes have some money bothers, too, I fear.”

“Evey and Mary haven’t got any new winter jackets,” I said. “They’re still wearing their tweed ones, with knitted vests underneath. The old lady can’t have sent them any Christmas present.”

Papa glanced at me in surprise.

“What old lady? You seem to know a great deal about our neighbours’ affairs, Miss Connie.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know much. Only it’s an old lady who’s Evey’s godmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn’t this year.”

Papa looked grave.

“I wonder,” he said, consideringly, “if that is what’s wrong. Whyte has an aunt, I know, who almost brought him up. I have heard Lady Honor speak of her as very eccentric. Perhaps – but I mustn’t gossip about my friends’ concerns,” he added more lightly, “though truly, in this case, it is real interest in them that makes me do so.”

“I am sure no one could ever accuse you of gossiping, Tom,” said mamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa’s or my defence.

“No one has done so, my dear, except my own self. Qui s’excuse, s’accuse, you know.”

And whistling in a boyish way, as he sometimes did, papa started off on his hard day’s work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead as he passed me.

I have always remembered that morning, because of what came afterwards: it was so miserable.

It was about three o’clock only; I was still at my lessons with my governess in the schoolroom. I had no idea of seeing papa again till perhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there was so much illness about. Still I was not exactly startled when I heard his voice in the hall, calling me. He did sometimes look in for a moment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at the surgery, or to fetch a book for himself, if he were going to drive far.

“Connie,” I heard, “Connie, I want you at once.”

“Run, Connie,” said Miss Wade, my governess, for I was delaying a moment to finish a line; a bad habit of mine was want of prompt obedience; “run at once, Dr Percy has no time to spare.”

She spoke rather sharply, and I got up.

“Yes, papa,” I said as I opened the door, rather affecting deliberateness till out of Miss Wade’s sight (I have told you that I had been “going back” lately in several ways.) “Yes, papa, I am here.”

I moved quickly once I got into the hall. Papa was standing there, booted and spurred – how nice and big and manly he looked! – for he had been riding. But his face had a strange expression; he looked stern and yet upset. Under his rather sunburnt bronzed complexion, I could see an unusual flush of excitement.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked, startled, I scarcely knew why. “Addie Whyte isn’t worse?”

“No, no, nothing like that. But I want you at once, Connie,” – he had begun to speak rather impatiently, but his tone softened as he saw that I looked frightened. “You needn’t look so terrified, my dear. It is nothing – only – only a little misapprehension which you will be able to set right at once. I want you to come with me to Lady Honor’s. I have ordered the carriage; it will be round in an instant. Run and put your things on, something warm; it is very cold.”

“But papa,” I began, “won’t you tell – ”

“No, my dear, I can’t explain. You will see for yourself that it is better not I will tell Miss Wade that you cannot have any more lessons this afternoon, and I have already told mamma that I want you. Be quick, dear.”

In five minutes I was seated beside papa in the brougham. He drew the soft, warm fur rug over me tenderly, and put his arm round me.

“Why are you trembling so, Connie?” he said. “You have done nothing wrong – what are you so frightened about?”

“I – I don’t know, papa,” I said, which was true. “It seems so strange.”

But this was not the whole truth. I had a queer, vague misgiving that the mystery had to do with the Whytes and their family affairs, though my mind was not collected enough to go into it properly.

“You will understand it directly,” said papa. “Ridiculous – ” – he gave a strange little laugh – “as if my Connie – so open too – ”

But somehow this did not reassure me.

When we got to Lady Honor’s, we were shown into the library. There was no one there, but in a moment or two old Mr Bickersteth hobbled in. He nodded to papa; afterwards I found, that he and papa had met already that afternoon. Papa had looked in to speak to Lady Honor about some poor protégé of hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling him of the Whytes’ troubles. Old Mr Bickersteth spoke kindly to me – even more kindly than usual – almost as though he were a little sorry for me.

I fancy I did look rather white and startled.

“Connie is a little frightened,” said papa. “I told you I should say nothing to her, so that Lady Honor or Captain Whyte can question her themselves straight away. I should like to lose no time, if you please, Mr Bickersteth; I am extremely busy.”

“Of course, of course, very sorry to detain you,” said the old gentleman. “Just a little mistake, no doubt. You have taken it up too seriously, my dear Percy.”

But papa shook his head, though he smiled a little, too.

“Shall we go to the drawing-room?” he said; on which Mr Bickersteth opened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in a cheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were the matter.

A servant was standing close by. He threw open the drawing-room door, and papa, half slipping his arm through mine, led me in. There were several people in the room, and I shook hands all round, though scarcely knowing with whom. Then by degrees I disentangled them; there were not so many after all, and all well known to me. Captain and Mrs Whyte and Mary – not Yvonne Lady Honor, of course, and Anna Gale and her father. Anna was very pale, and I could see she had been crying. Mary came up close to me and stood beside me. I think she took hold of my hand.

“Now, Connie,” said my father, “I want to ask you something. It has been stated – it is believed by some of our friends here – but of course the moment you deny it, it will be all right – that some little time ago you met in the lane that leads to the Yew Trees an old lady, a stranger, who asked you the way. And that you, instead of replying courteously and civilly as one should always do to a stranger, above all to an old person, answered her rudely, and went on to speak to her with something very like absolute insult. That you called her an old beggar, a tramp – I know not what;” here Anna Gale began sobbing audibly. Papa took no notice, but went on coolly. “Furthermore, that you bound down your companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least a rather curious incident – strangers are not so common at Elmwood as all that – you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about it from some motive. Your companion supposes you knew you had done wrong, and that your conscience made you silent. Now, I shall be pleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirely unfounded; either that it is some strange mistake – or – or – no, I can’t accuse other people’s daughters of anything worse than making a mistake.”

He glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. I seemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gaze fell on me. And I think I was very pale, but while he spoke I don’t think my expression had changed or faltered. Now, however, when he looked at me again, I felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still I looked up.

“Yes, papa,” I said; “it is all quite true. I spoke even worse than that. I made Anna promise not to tell, and I have never told myself, because I knew I had behaved disgracefully. But – but – I thought she was some kind of a tramp – there are plenty of tramps about here.” I stopped for a second. “No,” I went on, something seemed pushing at me to tell the whole truth, “no, I didn’t think she was a tramp when she came close. I thought she was from the almshouses. But she called me ‘child,’ and – and I was cross already, and I didn’t think she was a lady, and – yes, I said it all, worse than you know even. And I didn’t want any one ever to know.”

Papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. He seemed turned to stone. I could not bear it.

“Oh, papa!” I cried, stretching out my hands to him, “don’t – don’t look – ”

But he did not move. Only two arms were thrown round me and clasped me tight. It was Mary.

“You should forgive her,” she called out in a voice that was almost fierce. “You should– everybody. She has told it all now bravely, and she didn’t mean it. She didn’t know it was our aunt.”

“Your aunt?” I gasped.

“Yes,” said Captain Whyte, coming forward and speaking very gently. “My aunt, Connie. You did not know it, but I fear you have injured us irreparably, my poor child. She took you for Mary; she was coming to see us, as a surprise on Evey’s birthday – and now nothing will make her believe it was not Mary. You allowed her to think so.”

“Yes; I suppose I did. I couldn’t explain,” I replied; “but she would believe – she must– if you told her.”

He shook his head.

“You cannot understand,” he said, quietly.

I don’t clearly remember what happened after this. I think Lady Honor spoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. I remember Anna going on sobbing till I turned to her.

“What are you crying for?” I said. “Nobody is vexed with you.”

“I should have told sooner,” she wept.

“Yes, I suppose you should. But it was my fault, not yours. Why can’t you be satisfied that it’s I – only I – to blame? Everybody thinks me as bad as I can be, but you needn’t go on. Did your father ever look at you as papa did at me?”

I was growing desperate. Papa had walked out of the room without speaking to me. I did not know any one heard what I said to Anna till I felt some one’s arm passed round me. It was Mrs Whyte. Her pretty, merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but the kind, true brown eyes – Evey’s eyes – were kind and true still.

“Don’t speak like that, Connie dear,” she said. “I am far more sorry for you than for ourselves. I will come and see you to-morrow. I wish I could go home with you now but poor Addie is so ill;” and I saw the tears glistening.

Then I found myself in the hall, and in another moment in the carriage again – alone! I heard Captain Whyte speak to the coachman.