The letters from Mr. Vincent were not satisfactory. His brother was no better, but the end was not likely to be immediate. A specialist from Melbourne had even said that he might go on for another year. Mrs. Vincent's heart sank as she read it. She was a strange woman, with a wide outlook, and knew perfectly that time, which had dealt heavily with her, had tempered the years to her husband; there were days when he looked almost like a young man still, and in secret she fretted over her age. She knew, too, though no such thought had ever entered his head, that it was a little hard on him that he should be tied to a woman older than himself, incapable of giving him the companionship that insensibly he needed. She had not felt well lately, and found vague consolation in the possibility to which this pointed. But she wanted to see him again, even for a little while, then she could be content. Those about her guessed nothing of all this: to them it only seemed that she had grown more silent and dreamy than before.

Margaret heard of her father's probably protracted absence with despair. Something must happen, she thought; she herself must get out of the way, or Mr. Garratt must become engaged to Hannah. For matters had in no way improved. A sort of struggle was going on. On Margaret's side it was to keep out of his sight, on his to speak to her alone for some uninterrupted minutes; but as yet success had attended neither of them, and his attitude towards Hannah remained what it always had been. Once or twice Margaret had an idea of boldly seeking an interview, and then telling him that his attentions were simply making her miserable, of even throwing herself on his mercy; but something in his manner suggested that Mr. Garratt knew everything already, except the impossibility of his own success. Meanwhile the fifty pounds, that her father had arranged she should receive every quarter, arrived for the second time.

"You are sure that you want me to have it, mother?" she asked.

"Yes, Margey. I told your father that I wished it."

"I feel as if I am rolling in wealth," she said. This was a month after Tom Carringford's visit—a whole month, and there had not been another sign of him—and the last Saturday in July. The mid-day meal was just over, and Hannah was going to and fro between the living-place and the kitchen, while Margaret sat in the porch with Mrs. Vincent. "Mother," she whispered, "I have been thinking lately that I would write to Miss Hunstan again."

"The play-actress?" Mrs. Vincent whispered back, lest Hannah should catch the word.

"Yes, the play-actress," Margaret said, with a laugh in her eyes. "She is good and sweet—Mr. Carringford's mother loved her. She said again in the letter she sent me that I was to go and see her if I was in London. I want to go soon. I'm afraid she will be abroad if I don't; for she was going to Germany in August."

"But you can't go till your father returns."

"I can't stay here unless something to make things better happens. Oh, mother," she said, fervently, after a pause, "I do so hate Mr. Garratt."

Hannah heard the last words and stopped.

"It's a pity you don't tell him so," she said, "instead of always trying to draw him to yourself. You make one ashamed of your boldness."

"He came first because of Hannah, Margey, dear, and is as good as her promised husband," Mrs. Vincent urged.

"But he hasn't spoken—"

"And never will if you can help it," Hannah answered, quickly. "Besides, it's my opinion that he doesn't want to be related to an unbeliever—and perhaps something worse. It's just what he thought would happen about the Australian business."

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Vincent looked up aghast.

"What I mean is that we don't know anything about—father," Hannah answered, hesitating before she said the last word. "We never set eyes on any one belonging to him; we have only his word for it that he has got this brother; for all we know to the contrary he may have married another woman before he came here, and have gone back to her. There is nothing to hold him to what is right, or to help him to choose between right and wrong. For my part, I only hope that I may be out of the place before he comes into it again—if he ever does set foot in it again—for I hate the ground he treads on, and the ground that Margaret treads on, too—so now I've said it. It's my belief that the Lord will provide for them both some day according to their deserts."

Mrs. Vincent rose from her chair and stood with her back to the fireplace. Her face looked drawn and haggard, her lips were almost rigid, but her voice came clear and low. It fell upon Hannah like a lash.

"You are a malicious woman, Hannah," she said, "and I am ashamed of you. I know everything about him, and that is enough. I have held my tongue because you have never treated him as you should, and his affairs are no business of yours. But you ought to be ashamed of your thoughts; and as for religion, it is you that want it, not he. It's the leading of a good life, the telling of the truth, and the thinking well of others that makes religion and will gain heaven—that's my belief. Those that do different are as good as denying God. I said it to your grandparents long ago, and I say it again to you to-day." Mrs. Vincent's diction was not always strictly correct, but her meaning was clear enough.

"And I know everything about father, too," Margaret said, gently—for somehow she was sorry for Hannah—"and I cannot think why you should hate him—or even why you should hate me." She went a step out into the garden, and as she stood with her head raised, looking up at the high woods beyond, Hannah felt insensibly that there was a difference between them against which it was hopeless to contend—not merely a difference in looks, but a difference of class. It was one of the things she resented most.

"I know this," she said, "that it was a bad day for me when he first walked through Chidhurst village to Woodside farm."

"Mother," said Margaret, turning round, "some one has come to the house by the church. I passed it this morning and saw the luggage going in. Mr. Carringford said that Sir George was going to lend it from a Saturday to Monday to some friends of father's. Perhaps they have come."

"More of his fine feathers," said Hannah, contemptuously. "It's a pity he was left plucked so long."

"Hannah, be quiet," Mrs. Vincent said, sternly. "Go to your work, and don't come to me again till you have learned respect for those who are better than yourself." It was almost a command, but Mrs. Vincent had been roused into her old self again—the self of bygone years.

Luckily Towsey appeared on the scene.

"Sandy wants to know whether he's to be here to-morrow to take Mr. Garratt's horse. You said something about his not coming."

Hannah hurried out to speak to the old cowman who usually waited for Mr. Garratt's mare on Sunday morning before going to church.

"Mr. Garratt won't be over early to-morrow," she said. "He's driving a trap from Guildford, and it'll take him all he knows to get here by dinner-time. If you come up after church, Sandy, it'll do." This was an arrangement Mr. Garratt had made, rather to Hannah's surprise, on his last visit. It would be better than the train, he had explained; but it was a long way, and it would be impossible for him to arrive before the middle of the day.

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