While these things were pending, I went one day to the north side of Edam Water to call upon Ada Winter. I had known Ada at school—not in the same class or term, of course, but just because we came from the same place we nodded, if we were not in too great a hurry, when we crossed each other in the playground.

It was not much, but I have noticed that you get more fond of school after you have left it a while. Before, it was "the beastly hole," "Treadmill House," and other pretty little innocent names. Immediately after leaving school, however, it became "the dear old place," a little walled Paradise; and we used to go regularly to the station to see the girls who were still there going off "with smiling faces veiling sad hearts," as Hugh John said—and, of course, as I know now, wishing us all at Jericho.

At any rate I called upon Ada Winter, and among other things we talked about the choir practice at our church, and I asked Ada why she did not go. You see, she had been with me in the school choir, where, as in most choirs, they put the pretty girls in front. (No, I shan't tell where I sat, not I!)

"Why," said Ada, with an inflection which would have been bitter but for its sadness, "why I can't go to choir practice is not because I have lost my voice, as mother tells everybody. But because mother wants to go herself! Some one has got to stay at home."

"But Mrs. Winter—but your mother," I began, "she does not——"

"I know—I know—you need not repeat it," cried Ada, feeling for her handkerchief in a quick, nervous way she always had. "Mother cannot sing a note, and every one there makes fun of the way she dresses! Oh, don't I know!"

And she dabbed at her eyes, while I tried to think of something to say—something that obstinately kept away. I wanted to comfort her, you see, but you have no idea till you have tried how difficult it is to comfort (or even to answer) a girl who talks about her mother like that.

Of course I knew very well that it was all true. Mrs. Winter's youthful toilettes and girlish airs were the talk of the "visiting" good wives of Edam—and very respectable and noticing women these were, even beyond the average of a Scottish "neighborhood"—half village, half town—which is, they say, the highest in the world.

The men thought Mrs. Winter merely "nice looking." A few found her even "nice," and mentioned the fact at home! (Poor ignorant wretches, they deserved what they got!) Was it not evident to every woman (with eyes) in the congregation that Mrs. Winter was obviously, and with malice aforethought, setting her cap at the Reverend Cosmo Huntly, the newly-elected minister of the parish kirk in Edam?

No matter! I had been brought up in the ancient way, and (at least knowingly) I had not forsaken it.

I thought of the "Honor thy father and thy mother," and during the rest of my visit the words lay uncomfortably in the background of my mind.

But for the moment old comradeship prevailed. Even a queer little shamefaced tenderness somehow came over me.

"Poor Ada," I said, "it is a shame. You never get anywhere! We have all the fun, and you have to stop on here in this pokey place!"

"Oh, no," said Ada, dry-eyed, "you forget. There are the hens. When any one calls, mother sends me out to the back to feed the hens!"

We were speaking quietly on the doorstep of a quiet old house in the little main street. The lobby was dusky behind, and the settled smell of ancient furniture, perfectly kept for generations, came through the open door to mingle with the sharp sting of tar, and boats, and the sea which breathed up from the tidal river as through a funnel.

As we stood together silent for a moment, both a little moved and strange, even with one another, we heard a quick, decided tread. And round the corner came Ada's mother, "Young Mrs. Winter" as she was called, to distinguish her from Ada's grandmother, "Old Mrs. Winter," who lived in the little cottage by the Ryecroft Bridge at the other end of the town.

"Come, Ada," said her mother, "take Prissy in if you want to speak to her. I thought I had told you how much I dislike your standing gossiping on doorsteps like servant maids."

"Thank you, Mrs. Winter," I said very quietly. "I must go home. Father will want me to pour out his tea."

And Ada Winter did not press me to stay, but only shut the door, with a glance at me, and a sigh as her mother rustled up-stairs to "change for the evening."