"Aunt Sarah wished me to go out with the Palmers," said Anna.

"Grandfather said he didn't mind at all--"

"I knew your mother well," proceeded Mrs Winn, rolling on her way without noticing this remark, "and a sweet, young creature she was, though she made one mistake that I always regretted. And I know Mr Goodwin, of course, and respect him, though he's not made of the stuff that gets on in the world. Still, whatever his position is, you owe him duty and reverence; and let me tell you, young lady, there may come a time when you'll be sorry you've not given it. It's all very well, and very natural, I daresay, to enjoy frolicking about with your gay young friends now. But youth pa.s.ses, and pleasure pa.s.ses, and then we all have time to remember the duties we didn't stoop to pick up when they lay at our door."

Anna sat in sulky silence during this long speech, with her eyes cast down, and a pout on her lips. What right had Mrs Winn to scold her?

Sullen looks, however, had no sort of effect on that lady, and when she had taken breath, she proceeded to finish her lecture:

"I keep my eyes open, and my ears too, and I know very well, that though your grandfather says nothing, and is the sort of man to bear any neglect without complaint, that he feels hurt at your going so seldom to see him. And, knowing this, it was my duty to come and tell you, as there was no one else to do it. Your aunt and uncle are not intimate with him, and Delia Hunt's too young to speak with any weight.--There's another thing, too, I wanted to mention. Up to yesterday Mr Goodwin had received no invitation to the Palmers' picnic."

Anna's heart gave a sudden leap of joy. Then she could go to the picnic!

"I fancy, if she knew this, that Mrs Forrest would neither go herself nor allow you to do so," continued Mrs Winn. "Considering his connection with this family, it's a slight to her and her husband as well as to him. It's extremely strange of the Palmers, when they take so much notice of you. I almost feel inclined to go on to Pynes this afternoon and point it out to them!"

She waited, looking at Anna for a reply, but none came, for she was partly stunned by the force and suddenness of Mrs Winn's attack, and also filled with alarm at the idea of her going to Pynes. That would spoil everything. So she sat in silence, nervously twisting her fingers in her lap, her downcast face strangely unlike that of the usually bright, self-possessed Anna.

"After all," concluded Mrs Winn, "I'm rather tired, and it's a good mile farther, so I'll go back over the fields as I came, though the stiles do try me a good deal. You know how matters stand now, and you can't say you've not been openly dealt with. So we'll shake hands, and bear no malice."

Anna went with her visitor as far as the garden door, and watched her until she was hidden from sight by the great walnut tree on the lawn.

What a tiresome, interfering old lady she was, and how angry Aunt Sarah would be! Her head really ached now. It felt as though some one had been battering it on each side with large, strong hands, and she was quite confused and giddy; but through it all one triumphant thought came uppermost. She could go to the picnic! Presently she strolled out into the garden, fanning her hot face with her hat, as she turned things over in her mind. On the whole, she would not mention Mrs Winn's visit to her aunt, and, of course, she must not know that Mr Goodwin had not been asked to the picnic. It was very near now, and as Mrs Forrest was not fond of listening to Dornton gossip, she was not likely to hear of it in any other way. To go to the picnic had now taken such full possession of Anna's mind that nothing else seemed of much importance.

She was ready to bend and twist everything that came in her way to make the road to it straight. A small reproving voice, which still sounded sometimes, was getting less and less troublesome. "Afterwards," Anna said to it, "after the picnic, I will behave differently. I will never conceal anything, and I will go often to see grandfather--but I _must_ go to the picnic."

The stable clock sounding five disturbed her reflections. Aunt Sarah would be home soon without fail, for at a quarter past there would be a mothers' meeting at the schoolroom, at which she always presided. Anna went too, sometimes, and helped to measure out calico and flannel, but she hoped she should be excused this afternoon. The schoolroom was hot, and she did not find the books Aunt Sarah read aloud to the mothers very interesting.

There was the pony-cart in the distance! But who was the second figure sitting beside Mrs Forrest? Could it be Delia? Anna ran through the house and into the porch, from which she could see the long approach to the Rectory gate. There had been a time when Delia's coming had meant unmixed rejoicing, but that was over. She seemed to come now not so much as a friend as a severe young judge, whose looks condemned, even when she did not speak.

Mrs Winn had only put into words what Delia's face had said for some time past, and, with the sound of them still in her ears, Anna felt more alarmed than pleased, as she saw that it really was her old friend. Had she, too, come to point out her duty?

With the mothers' meeting on her mind, Mrs Forrest descended quickly from the pony-cart, and pa.s.sed Anna in the porch without looking at her.

"Is your headache better?" she said, as she went straight into the drawing-room, where tea was ready. "I overtook Delia on her way to see you, and brought her on with me. You must take care of yourselves, for I must start almost immediately. Please pour me out a cup of tea at once."

When Mrs Forrest had drunk her tea, and set forth at a leisurely pace for the schoolroom, provided with work-basket and book, the two girls were alone together. There was a pause of embarra.s.sment, which Delia was the first to break.

"I was coming over," she said, "to ask if you would care to go and get water-lilies down at the river this evening. You said you would like some rushes too."

Her voice sounded kind, almost as it used to long ago, although there was a sort of shyness in her manner. Anna was greatly relieved. Surely Delia would not have begun like this if she intended to reprove her.

"Mrs Forrest said you might go, if your head was better," continued Delia.

Anna replied eagerly that her headache was nearly gone, a walk would do it good, she should like it immensely; and a few minutes later the girls started on their expedition. It was one which had been planned in the first days of their acquaintance, when Anna had thought no pleasure could compare to a ramble in the country with Delia. Fresh from the rattle and noise of London, its stony pavements, and the stiff brilliancy of the flowers in the parks, it had been a sort of rapture to her to wander freely over the fields and through the woods. Aunt Sarah's garden was beautiful, but this was better still. All the flowers found here might be gathered, and Delia knew exactly where they all grew in their different seasons, and the best way of getting to them. Anna had begun, under her guidance, to make a collection of wild-flowers, but though started with great energy, it had not gone far.

It had ceased, together with the walks, shortly after her acquaintance with the Palmers had filled her mind with other things. Yet those rambles with Delia had never been forgotten. Anna thought of them often, and knew in her heart that she had never been so really happy since. This evening, as she walked along swinging her basket, she felt as though the old days had come back, and the old Delia too. It could not be so, really. If she knew--but she did not know. Meanwhile the sky was blue, Delia was kind, the meadows were gay and pleasant, she would forget everything disagreeable, and enjoy herself.

Their way lay for a short distance along the high-road, then over a stile, and down through the rich flat water-meadows which spread out on each side of the river. The Dorn was neither a rapid nor a majestic stream, but took its leisurely course between its sloping banks, with a contented ripple, disturbing no one. This course was a very winding one, making all kinds of little creeks, and shallows, and islands on its way, and these were full of delightful plants for any one who cared to gather them. Tall families of bulrushes and reeds swaying to the wind whistling through them; water-lilies, holding up their flat, green hands to make a table for their white blossoms; forests of willow-herb on the banks, wild peppermint and comfrey, and the blue eyes of forget-me-nots peeping out here and there with modest confidence.

"There's an old punt fastened just about here," said Delia, as they reached the river, "so we can get right out amongst the lilies, and then we can reach the rushes too."

Delia was always the leader on such occasions, and Anna was used to following her with perfect confidence, but when they came to the old punt, a little higher up, she eyed it with some misgivings. It looked very insecure, and shaky, and rotten.

"Oh, Delia," she cried, as her companion jumped lightly on to it and waited for her to follow, "it's leaking--I can see the water through it.

Do you think it will bear us both?"

Delia laughed as Anna crept cautiously down the bank. It reminded her of the time when she had had to encourage and help her to climb gates and scramble through hedges.

"Come along," she said, holding out her hand, "it's as safe as dry land.

Why, I've seen four great boys on it at once."

"How beautiful!" cried Anna, as, after a little more encouragement, she found herself safely on the punt by Delia's side, surrounded by water-lilies and bulrushes. They set to work to fill their basket with these, and when it was done there were always finer ones still almost out of reach. These must be had at any cost. Delia would lie flat on the punt, and while Anna held the skirt of her dress, would manage to get hold of them with the handle of a stick. There was both excitement and triumph in these captures, and while they were going on the girls forgot that any coolness had come between them, or that the world held much beyond water-lilies and bulrushes. When, however, they climbed out of the punt with their dripping prizes, and sat down on the bank to rest a little, recollections returned.

"What a pity," thought Anna, with a sigh, "that things are not always pleasant. Delia is nicer than any one when she is kind."

Delia, on her side, as she packed the lilies into the basket, reminded herself that there was something she had to say to Anna, and wondered how she should begin.

As usual, she plunged straight into the matter of which her mind was full, and said suddenly:

"Do you ever meet your grandfather at Pynes?"

Here was the tiresome subject again! All pleasure was over now.

"No, never," replied Anna. "He gives Clara lessons on Sat.u.r.days, and Aunt Sarah always wants me at home then."

"You are going to this picnic, I suppose?" said Delia. "Does Mrs Forrest know that the Professor has not been asked?"

"I don't know," murmured Anna.

She glanced quickly at her companion, and saw the severe look coming back which she always dreaded.

"Of course," continued Delia. "It does not in the least matter, as far as he is concerned, for he would not, in any case, go; but I should have thought his relations would have felt it a slight; and I can't understand Mrs Palmer."

Anna was silent. She wished now that Delia had not come, though she had enjoyed the walk so much.

"But I didn't mean to talk about that," resumed Delia, with an effort.

"What I wanted to say has nothing to do with the picnic. It's about you, Anna, and myself."

"About me?" repeated Anna.

After all, Delia _was_ going to be angry, yet her voice sounded quite soft and kind.

"Yes. At first I didn't mean to say anything to you, because I thought you ought to be able to see it for yourself. And when you didn't, I was angry, and that kept me silent. But I know now, it was wrong. People can't see things just alike, and I ought to have been kinder, and tried to help you more."

At this new tone of humility Anna's heart softened at once to her friend. When she spoke like that, she felt for the moment that she would do anything she asked--even give up the picnic.

"Oh, Delia," she exclaimed, impulsively, "you've always been very kind.

Kinder than I deserve."

"That's nothing to do with it," answered Delia. "People can do without friends when they deserve them. The thing is, that I promised the Professor to be your friend, and I haven't carried it out."

"It's been my fault," said Anna, in a penitent voice, "but really and truly, Delia, you may not believe me, but I _do_ like you better than Isabel Palmer--or any one. I do indeed."