Mittie wore her prettiest expression. She dropped her hat into the boat, and he took her parasol, holding out a hand to help, as she evidently meant to occupy her seat without delay.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "YOUR SISTER IS COMING?" HE SAID.]

[Sidenote: "Your Sister is Coming?"]

"Your sister is coming?" he said.

"She doesn't like to leave Grannie. So you'll have to do with me alone,"

smiled Mittie. "Such a pity, this splendid day! I did my best to persuade her--but she wouldn't be persuaded."

There was an abrupt pause. Even Mittie's self-complacency could not veil from her his changed face, his blank disappointment.

In that moment she very fully realised the truth that Joan, and not herself, was the one really wanted. But she smiled on resolutely, careless of what Fred might think about Joan's motives, and bent on making a good impression.

"It's the first time I've been to your house--oh, for months and months!

I'm _so_ looking forward to a whole day there. And being rowed down the river is so awfully delightful. I did try my hardest to get Joan to come, too; but she simply wouldn't, and she asked me to explain."

This only made matters worse. Fred could hardly avoid believing that Joan's absence was due to a wish to avoid him. In Mittie's mind lay a scarcely acknowledged fear that, if she were more explicit, Fred might insist on seeing Joan; and, in that event, that she might herself be in the end the one left behind. She was determined to have her day of fun.

Ferris had grown suddenly grave. He made Mittie comfortable in her seat, cast loose, and took the oars; but he seemed to have little to say.

Almost in complete silence they went to The Laurels. Mittie's repeated attempts at conversation died, each in succession, a natural death.

When Mary Ferris appeared, surprise was again shown at the sight of Mittie alone. Mary Ferris did not take it so quietly as her brother had done. She was naturally blunt, and she put one or two awkward questions which Mittie found it not easy to evade.

The hour on that lovely river, to which she had looked forward as delightful, proved dull.

Fred Ferris had nothing to say; he could not get over this seeming snub from Joan. He attended silently to his oars, and somehow Mittie had not courage to suggest that she would very much like to handle one of them.

Mary was politely kind, and talked in an intermittent fashion; but the "fun" on which Mittie had counted was non-existent.

When they reached the landing-place and stepped out Mrs. Ferris stood on the bank, awaiting them. And Mrs. Ferris, though able, when she chose, to make herself extremely charming, was a very outspoken lady.

There was no mistake about her astonishment. Her eyebrows went up, and her eyes ran questioningly over the white-frocked figure.

"What, only Mittie! How is this? Where is Joan?"

Mittie felt rather small, but she was not going to admit that she had been in the wrong.

"Joan wouldn't come," she said, smiling.

"Is she not well?"

"Oh yes; quite well. I did try to persuade her--but she wouldn't."

The mother and daughter exchanged glances. Fred was already walking away, and Mary remarked:

"Joan always thinks first of other people. I dare say she felt that she could not leave Mrs. Wills."

Mittie, conscious of implied blame, grew pink and eager to defend herself.

"She could have come--perfectly well! There wasn't the _least_ reason why she shouldn't. Grannie was all right. Joan simply--simply wouldn't!"

Mittie stopped, knowing that she had conveyed a false impression, but pride withheld her from modifying the words. "I told her she might--just as well."

Mrs. Ferris began to move towards the house. "It is a great pity," she said. "We all counted on having Joan. However, it cannot be helped now.

I hope you will enjoy yourself, my dear. Mary will show you over the garden and the house."

To Mary she added: "The old castle must wait for another time, I think--when Joan is here."

Mittie cast a questioning look, and Mary said, in explanation: "Only an old ruin a few miles off. We meant to have an excursion there this afternoon."

Mittie loved excursions, and could not resist saying so. No notice was taken of this appeal; but somewhat later she overheard a murmured remark from Mrs. Ferris to Mary.

[Sidenote: "Certainly not--now!"]

"No, certainly not--now. Fred will not care to go. He is very much disappointed, poor boy! If only one could be sure that it means nothing!" But Mittie was not meant to hear this.

They were very kind to her, and she really had nothing to complain of on the score of inattention. Mary, who happened to be the only daughter at home, took her in charge and put her through a steady course of gardens, gla.s.shouses, family pets, and old furniture--for none of which Mittie cared a rap. What she had wanted was a gay young party, plenty of fun and merriment, and for herself abundance of admiration.

But Fred made himself scarce, only appearing at luncheon and vanishing afterwards; and Mrs. Ferris was occupied elsewhere most of the time; while between Mary and herself there was absolutely nothing in common.

Mary, though only the senior by two or three years, was not only clever, but very intelligent and well read, and she had plenty of conversation. But the subjects for which she cared, though they would have delighted Joan, were utter tedium to Mittie's empty little head.

Before an hour had pa.s.sed, Mary's boredom was only less p.r.o.nounced than Mittie's own.

It was so tiresome, so stupid of Joan not to come! Mittie complained bitterly to herself of this. If Joan had come too, all would have gone well. She could not help seeing that she had not been meant to come without Joan, still less instead of Joan.

With all her a.s.surance, this realisation that she was not wanted and that everybody was regretting Joan's absence made her horribly uncomfortable.

When left alone for a few minutes, early in the afternoon, she tugged angrily at her gloves, and muttered: "I wish I wasn't here. I wish I had left it to Joan. I think they are all most awfully frumpish and stupid, and I can't imagine what makes Joan so fond of them!"

But she did not yet blame herself.

Five o'clock was the time fixed for return. Had Joan come it would have been much later.

At tea-time Fred turned up, and it appeared that he meant to get off the return-row up the river. He had engaged a boatman to do it in his stead.

Mary would still go, and though Mittie proudly said it did not matter, she wouldn't in the least mind being alone, Mary only smiled and held to her intention.

But long before this stage of proceedings everybody was tired--Mary and Mittie especially, the one of entertaining, the other of being entertained.

Mary had tried every imaginable thing she could think of to amuse the young guest, and every possible subject for talk. They seemed to have arrived at the end of everything, and it took all Mittie's energies to keep down, in a measure, her recurring yawns. Mary did her best, but she found Mittie far from interesting.

When at length they started for the riverside, Fred went with the two girls to see them off; and Mittie felt like a prisoner about to be released.

She was so eager to escape that she ran ahead of her companions towards the landing-place, and Mary dryly remarked in an undertone: "Mittie has had about enough of us, I think. How different she is from Joan! One would hardly take them for sisters."

Fred was too downhearted to answer. He had felt all day terribly hopeless.