nt Janet pressed the hand in hers and at
that moment Mary, the servant-girl, appeared in the doorway with a
somewhat perturbed countenance.

"Please, mum, there is that Bridget girl from the village and her
mother; will you see them a minute?"

The charity and sweetness left Miss Rutherford's face as if an artist
had drawn a sponge across some painting. "I'll come directly," she said
stiffly; "make them wait in my little room, Mary."

"The village scandal," Miss Abercrombie remarked, as the door closed
behind the servant; "how are you working it out, Janet? Don't be too
hard on the unrighteous; it is your one little failing."

"I hardly think it is a subject which can be discussed before Joan,"
Miss Rutherford answered. She rose and moved to the door. "I have always
kept her very much a child, Ann; will you remember that in talking to
her."

Miss Abercrombie waited till the door shut, then her eyes came back to
Joan. The child had grown into a woman, she realized; what would that
knowledge cost her old friend? Then she laughed, but not unkindly.

"I know someone else who has kept herself a child," she said, "and it
makes the outlook of her mind a little narrow. Oh, well! you won't like
me to speak disrespectfully of that very dear creature, your aunt. Will
you come for a stroll down to the woods or are you longing to unpack?"

Joan chose the latter, because, for a second, despite her instantaneous
liking for Miss Abercrombie, she was a little afraid. She wanted to set
her thoughts in order too, to try and win back to the glad joy which she
had first felt at being home, and which had been dispelled by Aunt
Janet's questions and her own evasive replies.

"I will do my unpacking, I think," she said, "and put my room straight."
She met the blue eyes again, kindly yet keen in their scrutiny. "I
understand what you mean about Aunt Janet," she added; "I have felt it
too, and, Miss Abercrombie, I am not quite such a child as she thinks; I
could not help growing up."

"I know that, my dear," the other answered, "and God gave us our eyes to
see both good and evil with; that is a thing your Aunt Janet is apt to
forget. Well, run away and do your unpacking; we will meet later on at
dinner."

CHAPTER IV

"I have forgotten you! Wherefore my days
Run gladly, as in those white hours gone by
Before I learnt to love you. Now have I
Returned to that old freedom, where the rays
Of your str