Delia smiled to herself as she watched her visitor's portly form out of sight. How very little it would matter to the Professor whether the Palmers sent him an invitation or not! He would not even notice the absence of one. He had never cultivated the habit of feeling himself injured, and was happily placed far above the miseries of fancied slights and neglect. Nevertheless she resented, as she always did, the tone of condescension with which Mrs Winn had mentioned him, and returned to the drawing-room with a ruffled brow and a vexed spirit.

Mrs Hunt still slumbered peacefully, quite undisturbed by the little agitations of Dornton. As her daughter entered, she gently opened her eyes.

"Del, my love," she murmured, "I meant to ask you to go and inquire how Mrs Hurst's little boy is this morning. Did I?"

"No, mother," said Delia.

"There's a beautiful jelly made for him," said Mrs Hunt, closing her eyes again, and folding her hands in front of her comfortable person.

"I thought you might take it."

"I pa.s.sed the door this morning," said Delia. "I could easily have taken it if you had remembered to ask me. It's so late now."

"It won't keep firm this hot weather," continued Mrs Hunt's sweet, low voice. "He ought to have it to-day."

Delia did not answer. She was tired. It was hot. Mrs Winn's visit had come at the close of a most irksome afternoon. She was longing for a little quiet time for her music.

"Poor Mrs Hurst!" pursued her mother. "So many children, and so few to help her. Johnnie's been worse the last day or two."

As usual on such occasions, Delia shortly found herself, basket in hand, making her way along the dusty High Street to Mrs Hurst's house.

Dornton and the Dornton people seemed to her at that moment almost unbearable. Should she ever get away from them? she wondered. Would her life be spent within the hearing of Mrs Winn's sententious remarks, the tedious discussions of tiny details, the eternal chatter and gossip, which still seemed to buzz in her ears, from the meeting that afternoon?

Then her thoughts turned to their usual refuge, the Professor, and she began to plan a visit to Anna at Waverley. Since her last talk with him, she had made up her mind that she would do her very utmost to renew their old friendliness. She would not take offence so easily, or be so quick to resent it, when Anna did not see things as she did. She would be patient, and she would keep her promise to the Professor. She would try to understand. For his sake she would humble herself to make the first advance, and this, for Delia's somewhat stubborn spirit, was a greater effort than might be supposed.

Anna, meanwhile, was quite as much interested as the Dornton people about the picnic which the Palmers intended to give. All country pleasures were new to her, and her companions at Pynes were _very_ much amused to hear that she had never been to a picnic in her life, and had most confused ideas as to what it meant.

"It will be a very large one," said Isabel Palmer to her one morning.

"Mother thinks it will be such a good way of entertaining the Dornton people. We thought of a garden-party, but if it's fine a picnic will be much more fun."

The three girls were alone in the schoolroom, their lessons just over, and Anna was lingering for a chat before going back to Waverley.

"Have you settled on the place yet?" she asked.

"Alderbury," replied Isabel, "because it's near, and there's a jolly little wood to make the fire in."

"How delightful it will be!" exclaimed Anna. "How I wish it was going to be to-morrow, I'm so afraid something will prevent it."

"Bother this list!" put in Clara's voice, from the table where she sat writing; "you might help me, Isabel."

"What do you want?" asked her sister.

"Well--Mr Goodwin, for instance--am I to put him down?"

Anna gave a little start, and gazed earnestly out of the window at which she stood, as Isabel went up to the table and looked over Clara's shoulder. Then they did not know! Aunt Sarah had not told them. How strange it seemed!

"W-well, I don't know," said Isabel, reflectively. "We never have asked him to anything; but a picnic's different. He's a very nice old man, isn't he?"

"He's an old dear," replied her sister, heartily, "but he's an organist.

We shouldn't ask the organist of the church here."

"Mr Goodwin's different, somehow," said Isabel; "he's so clever, and then he's a great friend of the Hunts, you know, and, of course, we shall ask them."

"Well, what am I to do?" repeated Clara.

"Put him down, and put a query against him," decided Isabel, "and when mother sees the list, she can alter it if she likes."

Anna expected every moment during this discussion that her opinion would be asked. She stood quite still, her back turned to her companions, a bright flush on her cheek, her heart beating fast. When all chance of being appealed to was over, and the girls had gone on to other names, she drew a deep breath, as if she had escaped a danger.

"I must go now," she said, turning towards them, "Aunt Sarah wants me early to-day;" and in a few moments she was out of the house and on the way home.

It was not until she was half-way down the long hill which led from Pynes to Waverley, that she began to realise what difficulties she had prepared for herself by her silence. If Mr Goodwin were asked, and if he came to the picnic, the relationship between them must be known.

That would not matter so much, but it would matter that she had seemed to be ashamed of it. Why had she not told them long ago? Why had she not spoken just now, at the first mention of his name? What a foolish, foolish girl she had been! What should she do now? Turning it over in her mind, she came to the conclusion that she must make some excuse to her Aunt, and stay away from the picnic. She could not face what might happen there. The Palmers' surprise, Delia's scorn. Why did you not tell us? she heard them saying, and what could she answer? As she thought of how much she had looked forward to this pleasure, a few tears rolled down Anna's cheek, but they were not tears of repentance. She was only sorry for her own disappointment, and because things did not go smoothly. It was very hard, she said to herself, and the hardest part was that she was forced continually into crooked ways. She did not want to be deceitful; she would much rather be brave and open like Delia, only things were too strong for her. As she thought this, Delia's face seemed suddenly to appear before her: it did not look angry or scornful, but had a gentle, almost pleading expression on it: she was speaking, and what she said sounded quite clearly in Anna's ears: "Go back and tell them now. Go back and tell them now," over and over again.

Anna stopped uncertainly, and turned her head to where, over the tops of the trees, she could still catch a glimpse of the chimneys of Pynes: she even took two or three steps up the hill again, the voice still sounding entreatingly and loud. But now it was joined by another, louder and bolder, which tried to drown it. This one told her that, after all, there was no need. Things would go well. The Palmers might never know.

Soon they would go to Scotland, and after that--well, that was a long way off. Anna turned again, this time with decision, and finished the rest of her journey to Waverley almost at a run, without stopping to think any more.

As the days went on without any further mention of Mr Goodwin, she began to hope that, after all, she might be able to go to the picnic.

How should she find out? She had not courage to ask the Palmers, and though it would have been a simple matter to ask her grandfather himself, she shrank from facing him and his gentle kindliness just now.

If only some visitor from Dornton would come over! This wish was at last realised in a very unexpected way, and one which was not altogether pleasant. It was the day on which her visit to Mr Goodwin was usually made, and she had begged her aunt to allow her to remain at home. The heat had given her a headache, and she would rather go to Dornton some other day. Mrs Forrest received the excuse indulgently.

"I will call in and leave a message with Mr Goodwin," she said, "and you had better lie down quietly in your own room. By the time I get back you will be better, I hope."

But Aunt Sarah had hardly been gone ten minutes before there was a knock at Anna's door:

"Mrs Winn would like to speak to you, miss. I told her you were not well, but she says she will only keep you a few minutes."

Anna did not know much of Mrs Winn, and thought, as she went down-stairs, that she had most likely some message for Mrs Forrest to leave with her. Would she say anything about the picnic, or the people who were going to it?

Mrs Winn had taken up a determined position on a stiff, straight-backed chair in the middle of the room. There was severity in her glance as she replied to Anna's greeting, and remarked that she was sorry to miss Mrs Forrest.

"Aunt Sarah's only just started to drive into Dornton," said Anna; "I wonder you did not meet her."

"I came by the fields," replied Mrs Winn shortly. "You were not well enough to go out, I hear?"

"I had a headache," said Anna, with her pretty blush; "aunt thought I had better stay at home."

"You don't look much the worse for it," said Mrs Winn, without removing her unblinking gaze. "Girls in my young days didn't have headaches, or if they did, they put up with them, and did their duty in spite of them.

Things are turned topsy-turvy now, and it's the old who give way to the young."

Surprised at this tone of reproof, for which she was quite unprepared, Anna's usually ready speech deserted her. She said nothing, and hoped that Mrs Winn would soon go away. But that was evidently not her intention just yet: she had come prepared to say what was on her mind, and she would sit there until it was said.

"But, perhaps," she continued, "it's just as well you didn't go out, for I've been wanting an opportunity to speak to you for some days."

"To me?" said Anna, faintly.

"I never shrink from my duty," went on Mrs Winn, "whether it's unpleasant or not, and I don't like to see other people doing so. Now, you're only a child, and when you neglect to do what's right, you ought to be told of it."

Anna gazed in open-eyed alarm at her visitor. What could be coming?

"I don't suppose you know, and, therefore, I think it my duty to tell you, that your grandfather, old Mr Goodwin, was extremely disappointed the other day when you failed to keep your promise. I hear that he waited for you until quite late."