But before all this had happened, Anna had provided them with a great and glad surprise, though at the same time a painful one; for the only wish of all concerned was that the past should lie buried, and the stupid, regrettable incident that had caused so much sorrow should be forgotten.

They were all seated at tea one day—­the children and Dr. Trenire around the table, and Aunt Pike in her big chair near the window—­when suddenly the door was burst open, and Anna, whose absence had set them all wondering, walked in.

“I have done it!” she cried excitedly.  “I have told them all—­Lady Kitson and Miss Richards and Miss Matilda—­and—­and now,” sobbing hysterically with nervous excitement, “I want to go away from Gorlay.  I can’t stay here.  I want to get away from every one until—­until they have forgotten.  I’d like to go to Kitty’s school.  May I, mother?”

“Told all what?” asked Mrs. Pike eagerly, ignoring all of Anna’s outcry but that.

“Told them all about that—­that evening, and me and Lettice.  I wanted to try to forget it, and I couldn’t until I had told them all.”

“O Anna, I wish you hadn’t,” cried Kitty, greatly distressed lest the mention of the old trouble should be too agitating for her aunt.  But, to her surprise, Mrs. Pike looked up with such pleasure in her eyes as had not been seen in them for a very long time.

“Have you really, Anna?” she cried gladly.  “Oh, I am so thankful, child.  That will do me more good than anything,” and she drew Anna down to her and kissed her very tenderly.  “Yes, dear,” with an understanding of Anna’s feelings such as she had never shown before, “you shall go away to school for a time.  You shall go to Miss Pidsley’s next term, if you like.  I am sure it is the best plan.”

So Anna went away to school, and Aunt Pike moved into her new home in time to receive her on her return for the Christmas holidays.  A nurse-companion was engaged to live with Mrs. Pike and take care of her; but never a day passed but what Kitty went to sit with her, to tell her the news or ask her advice.  The others went frequently too—­Tony regularly, and Dan daily when he was at home.  Betty went sometimes, but not so gladly, for she never quite got over the fright of that dreadful day, and a terrible lurking dread that she might accidentally shock her aunt again, and once more hear that strange, far-away voice, and see her falling, falling.  But Kitty never failed; and Kitty was, perhaps, the best beloved of them all by the aunt who had tried, and been so tried by, them.

“You see, Kitty was the only one who willingly kissed me and called me ‘dear,’” the poor invalid confessed one day to the doctor as they sat together in the firelight talking over many things—­“the only one since Michael died; and cold, reserved folk such as I remember these things.”

“She has a warm heart has my Kitty,” said the doctor softly, “and a generous one;” then, fearing as usual the effect of any emotion on the invalid, “She told me that if I came here I was to look about me and see if she had left her gloves about.  She thinks she lost one on the way here, but may have dropped the other in the house, as she is almost certain she had one with her.  It doesn’t much matter, though; they were very full of holes, oddly enough,” with a smile.