"I don't find either of you very helpful," said Aunt Harriet plaintively.

Her couch had been wheeled out under the apple tree, and her sister and niece were sitting with her under its shade after luncheon. During the meal Aunt Harriet had at considerable length expounded one of the many problems that agitated her, the solution of which would have robbed her of her principal happiness in life.

Her mind, what little there was of it, was spasmodically and intermittently employed in what she called "threshing out things." The real problems of life never got within shouting distance of Aunt Harriet, but she would argue for days together whether it was right—not for others but for her—to repeat as if she assented to them the somewhat unsympathetic utterances of the Athanasian Creed as to the fate in store for those who did not hold all its tenets.

"And I don't believe they will all go to hell fire," she said mournfully. "I'm too wide-minded, and I've lived too much in a highly cultivated society. The Miss Blinketts may, but I don't. And I know as a fact that Mr. Harvey does not believe it either.... Though, of course, I do accept the Athanasian Creed. I was able to assure Canon Wetherby so only yesterday, when I discussed the subject with him. He said it was the corner-stone of the Church, and that in these agnostic days we Church people must all hold firmly together, shoulder to shoulder. I see that, and I don't want to undermine the Church, but——"

"Suppose you were to leave out that one response about hell fire," said Annette, "and say all the rest."

"I am afraid my silence might be noticed. It was different in London, but in a place like Riff where we, Maria of course more than I, but still where we both stand as I may say in the forefront, take the lead in the religious life of the place, good example, influential attitude, every eye upon us. It is perplexing. For is it quite, quite truthful to keep silence? 'Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie.' How do you meet that, Annette? or, 'To thine own self be true, and it will follow as the night to day'—I mean as the day to night—'thou canst not then be false to anybody.' What do you say to that, Annette?"

Annette appeared to have nothing to say, and did not answer. Aunt Maria, slowly turning the leaves of a presentation volume from Mr. Harvey, said nothing either.

"I don't find either of you particularly helpful," said Aunt Harriet again. "You are both very fortunate, I'm sure, not to have any spiritual difficulties. I often wish I had not such an active mind. I think I had better ask Mr. Black to come and see me about it. He is always kind. He tells me people constantly unburden themselves to him."

"That is an excellent idea," said Aunt Maria promptly, with a total lack of consideration for Mr. Black, who perhaps, however, deserved his fate for putting his lips to his own trumpet. "He has studied these subjects more than Annette and I have done. Ask him to luncheon to-morrow."

Aunt Harriet, somewhat mollified, settled herself among her cushions, and withdrew her teeth as a preliminary to her daily siesta. Aunt Maria, who had been bolt upright at her desk since half-past nine, took off her spectacles and closed her eyes.

A carriage was heard to rumble into the courtyard.

"Fly, my dear, fly," said Aunt Harriet, "catch Hodgkins and tell her we are not at home. I'm not equal to seeing anyone till four o'clock. I should have thought all the neighbourhood must have realized that by now. Save me, Annette."

Annette hurried into the house, and then through a side window suddenly caught sight of Mrs. Stoddart's long grim face under a parasol, and ran out to her and dragged her out of the carriage.

"I thought you had gone," she said, holding her tightly by her mantilla, as if Mrs. Stoddart might elude her even now. The elder woman looked at Annette's drawn face and thrust out her under lip. She had feared there would be trouble when Annette told Roger of her past, and had asked Mr. Stirling to let her stay on at Noyes a few days longer. As she sat by Annette in the parlour at Red Riff she saw that trouble had indeed come.

"You have told your Roger," she said laconically, looking at the girl with anger and respect. "I don't need to ask how he has taken it."

Annette recounted what had happened, and once again Mrs. Stoddart experienced a shock. She had come prepared to hear that Roger had withdrawn the light of his countenance from Annette, and to offer stern consolation. But the complication caused by Annette having informed Roger of the existence of the will, and the fact that she had witnessed it, overwhelmed her.

A swift spasm passed over her face.

"This is the first I've heard of you witnessing it," she said, sitting very bolt upright on the sofa.

Annette owned she had entirely forgotten that she had done so until Roger had told her no will was forthcoming.

"Then it all came back to me," she said.

"It's not to be wondered at that you did not remember, considering you became unconscious with brain fever a few hours later," said Mrs. Stoddart in a perfectly level voice. And then, without any warning, she began to cry.

Annette gazed at her thunderstruck. She had never seen her cry before. What that able woman did, she did thoroughly.

"I thought I had seen to everything," she said presently, her voice shaking with anger, "taken every precaution, stopped up every hole where discovery could leak out, and fortune favoured you. My only fear was that Dick's valet, who was at the funeral, might recognize you. But he didn't."

"I told you he did not see me at the station that day I went with Dick."

"I know you did, but I thought he might have seen you, all the same. But he evidently didn't, or he would have mentioned it to the family at once. And now—now all my trouble and cleverness and planning for you are thrown away, are made absolutely useless by yourself, Annette: because of your suicidal simpleness in witnessing that accursed will. It's enough to make a saint swear."

Mrs. Stoddart wiped her eyes, and shook her fist in the air.

"Providence never does play fair," she said. "I've been outwitted, beaten, but it wasn't cricket. I keep my self-respect. The question remains, What is to be done?"

"I shall wait till Roger comes back before I do anything."

"I take for granted that Roger Manvers and his cousin Janey will never say a word against you?—that they will never 'tell,' as the children say."

"I am sure they never will."

"And much good that will do you when your signature is fixed to Dick's will! That fact must become known, and your position at Fontainebleau is bound to leak out. Roger can't prove the will without giving you away. Do you understand that?"

"I had not thought of it."

"Then every man, woman, and child at Riff, including your aunts, will know about you."

"Yes,"—a very faint "Yes," through white lips.

"And they will all, with one consent, especially your aunts, believe the worst."

"I am afraid they will."

There was a long silence.

"You can't remain here, Annette."

"You said before at Fontainebleau that I could not remain, but I did."

Mrs. Stoddart recognized, not for the first time, behind Annette's mildness an obstinacy before which she was powerless.

As usual, she tried another tack.

"For the sake of your aunts you ought to leave at once, and you ought to persuade them to go with you, before the first breath of scandal reaches Riff."

"Yes, we must all go. Of course we can't go on living here, but I would rather see Roger first. Roger is good, and he is so kind. He will understand about the aunts, and give me a few days to make it as easy to them as it can be made, poor dears."

"You ought to prepare their minds for leaving Riff. I should not think that would be difficult, for they lamented to me that they were buried here, and only remained on your account."

"Yes, they always say that. I will tell them I don't like it, and as they don't like it either, it would be best if we went away."

"You are wishing that nothing had been kept from them in the first instance?" said Mrs. Stoddart, deeply wounded, though she kept an inflexible face.

"Yes," said Annette; "and yet I have always been thankful in a way they did not know. I have felt the last few days as if the only thing I really could not bear was telling the aunts. But this will be even worse—I mean that you say everybody will know. It will wound them in their pride, and upset them dreadfully. And they are fond of me now, which will make it worse for them if it is publicly known. They might have got over it if only Roger and Janey knew. But they will never forgive me putting them to public shame."

"Come and live with me," said Mrs. Stoddart fiercely. "I love you, Annette." And in her heart she thought that if her precious only son, her adored Mark, did fall in love with Annette he could not do better. "Come and live with me."

"I will gladly come and live with you for a time later on."

"Come now."

"Not yet."

"It's no use stopping," she said, taking the girl by the shoulders. "What's the good? Your Roger won't marry you, my poor child."

"No," said Annette firmly, though her lips had blanched. "I know he will not. But—I ran away before when some one would not marry me, and it did not make things any better—only much, much worse. My mind is made up. I will stay this time."