"I think so; yes."

"It was useless, was it not?"

"Of course; until it was mended."

"Well, I am like that watch. The spring that guided my life is broken, and, unlike the watch, it can never be mended."

"You forget that there is such a thing as a watchmaker; even for the human watch," said Leslie, her tone softening.

"Granted; but I shall not put myself into His hands. Good-night, I am dead tired. I feel numb all over. I am going to bed. I want, beyond everything else on earth, to sleep."

She threw herself down on her bed without an attempt at undressing.

Leslie started up to remonstrate. If Annie lay like that she would have a terrible cold in the morning. She advanced a step or two across the room, and then paused.

"After all, it does not matter," she said to herself. "I should not have got into this awful sc.r.a.pe if I had not been good to her. I will leave her alone now. I have ruined myself absolutely and for ever; but I cannot-cannot be friends with her."

"Rupert has gone, Rupert has gone," moaned Annie, "and my sun has set."

Leslie heard the words, but even they did not soften her.

"What has come to me?" she thought. "Has this trouble turned me into a stone?"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE PICNIC.

The Gilroy children were all in the wildest state of excitement. It was a lovely day in July, and they were going off for a picnic on the river.

Leslie was standing by the center table in the dining room, busily packing a basket. Kitty was b.u.t.tering bread and making sandwiches, Mabel was cutting cake into thick slices, Hester was darning a rent in the back of her dress, and Llewellyn was here, there, and everywhere.

"We must start soon," he said. "When will the baskets be ready? I wonder mother has not come in."

"Is not she in?" asked Leslie, standing up to her full height, and pressing her hand to her forehead.

"Have you got one of your headaches back again, Leslie?" asked Llewellyn.

"Oh, just a little, very little; but the air will do me good. It will be lovely to-day on the river."

"Yes, splendid," said Llewellyn. "We will have tea at Twickenham, and go home in the cool of the evening. You cannot think how nice old Forrest has been about this. He gave me a holiday at once when I asked him this morning. He said that he only wished he kept a provision shop instead of a drapery shop, so that he might send us pies and things for our picnic."

"But even though he does keep a linen-draper's shop," said Hester, "he could still help us. I, for instance, should not at all object to materials for a new gown. This old serge is so thick and hot."

"But if you put on a white shirt, dear, you will look as neat and nice as possible," said Leslie; "and won't be at all too warm."

"Oh, I can't be bothered," said Hester, shrugging her shoulders. "I forgot to send my shirts to the wash on Monday, and I have not one fit to be seen."

"Then it serves you right if you are hot and uncomfortable," cried Kitty.

Kitty herself was always the pink of neatness. Hester was evidently the troublesome one of the family.

Leslie went on packing her basket. She wedged in the hard-boiled eggs, raised pies, roast chickens, sandwiches, and the sweets. At last the big basket was quite full.

"Doesn't it look tempting?" said Mabel, smacking her lips. "How frightfully hungry I'll be. Oh, don't forget, whatever happens, the other basket with the ginger beer and lemonade. I only trust we have got enough."

"And the cold tea for mother," said Llewellyn; "be sure you put that in."

The boys and girls chatted eagerly one to the other.

"I say," cried Kitty, "isn't it nice to have old Leslie back again?

We'll hate it when you have to return to your grand college in the autumn, Leslie; but I wish," she added, "you would talk more about it. I thought you'd have no end of rattling good stories to tell us; but you are as mum and quiet as if you had not had a good time at all, whereas, of course, you have had the very best time a girl could have. I suppose it is the weight of all the learning that bothers you. And what about those Chetwynds? You wrote to mother about them, and about that extraordinary girl, Belle Acheson; but since you have come back, you have hardly said a word about any of your fellow-students."

"I am sorry," said Leslie. "I will try to tell you something amusing to-day, Kitty. I don't want to make myself mum and disagreeable."

"Oh, you are never that, you dear old darling; only, we were hoping for so much-weren't we, Hetty?"

"Yes," said Hester, who was still darning the rent in her dress. "I do wish this cotton wouldn't break so."

"Give it to me," said Leslie; "I'll have it darned in a trice. Ah!

there's mother's step at last. Dear old mammy, I hope she is not too tired."

"There is someone coming back with her," said Kitty. "Don't you hear two footsteps? Who can it possibly be?"

The next moment the room-door was opened, and Mrs. Gilroy, accompanied by Mr. Parker, came in.

Leslie had not seen Mr. Parker since her interview with him at Wingfield. She now felt herself turning pale; her pallor was suddenly succeeded by a quick flush of color. She hoped no one noticed her agitation; but, raising her eyes, she met those of Llewellyn. His wore a perturbed expression.

Mr. Parker, after greeting the other children, came up to her and offered his hand.

"Glad to see you back again, Miss Leslie," he said. There was an indescribable, restrained note in his voice.

"Well, children, what do you say to my joining you to-day?" He turned and faced Kitty and Hester. "Your mother was good enough to invite me, and I am as up to a bit of frolic as if I were as young as you. Where is little Dan? He must be my special charge to-day."

"Kitty, give me those sandwiches. I can finish packing them," said Leslie in a low voice which she hardly recognized as her own.

After Mr. Parker's one hand-clasp, which was firm and cordial enough, he had turned his back on her. He still did so, and kept on talking to Llewellyn and the younger children.

Mrs. Gilroy sat down on the sofa.

"It is very hot," she said.

"And you are very tired," said Mr. Parker. "Now listen; I am going to have my own way, and n.o.body shall interfere. What is the good of money if you cannot spend it now and then? You want to go to Richmond?"

turning to Mrs. Gilroy, "Go to Richmond you shall, but you are not going by train. No, we will have a carriage, and I will drive you down. A carriage will hold you and myself and a couple of the children. Not another word, my dear friend. What is the good of money if you cannot have a treat?"

"But you do far too much for us, Mr. Parker," replied Mrs. Gilroy.