that anxiety was forced below the surface. The nights
were far more terrible; for then, not only had she to bear her own
suspense, but, as was natural in a wife, the fears of Horace Pendyce as
well. The poor Squire found this the only time when he could get
relief from worry; he came to bed much earlier on purpose. By dint of
reiterating dreads and speculation he at length obtained some rest. Why
had not George answered? What was the fellow about? And so on and so on,
till, by sheer monotony, he caused in himself the need for slumber. But
his wife's torments lasted till after the birds, starting with a sleepy
cheeping, were at full morning chorus. Then only, turning softly for
fear she should awaken him, the poor lady fell asleep.

For George had not answered.

In her morning visits to the village Mrs. Pendyce found herself, for the
first time since she had begun this practice, driven by her own trouble
over that line of diffident distrust which had always divided her from
the hearts of her poorer neighbours. She was astonished at her own
indelicacy, asking questions, prying into their troubles, pushed on by a
secret aching for distraction; and she was surprised how well they took
it--how, indeed, they seemed to like it, as though they knew that they
were doing her good. In one cottage, where she had long noticed with
pitying wonder a white-faced, black-eyed girl, who seemed to crouch
away from everyone, she even received a request. It was delivered with
terrified secrecy in a back-yard, out of Mrs. Barter's hearing.

"Oh, ma'am! Get me away from here! I'm in trouble--it's comin', and I
don't know what I shall do."

Mrs. Pendyce shivered, and all the way home she thought: 'Poor little
soul--poor little thing!' racking her brains to whom she might confide
this case and ask for a solution; and something of the white-faced,
black-eyed girl's terror and secrecy fell on her, for, she found no one
not even Mrs. Barter, whose heart, though soft, belonged to the Rector.
Then, by a sort of inspiration, she thought of Gregory.

'How can I write to him,' she mused, 'when my son----'

But she did write, for, deep down, the Totteridge instinct felt that
others should do things for her; and she craved, too, to allude, however
distantly, to what was on her mind. And, under the Pendyce eagle and the
motto: 'Strenuus aureaque penna', thus her letter ran:

"DEAR GRIG,

"Can you do anything for a poor little girl in the village