Anne emptied the basket of plums into a basin the elder girl brought, and received the money mechanically.  She was thinking all the time of Jane Evans and the careless laugh of the elder girl.  Some one should tell her.  That was quite plain.  But it was nobody’s business.  She shook hands with the fortunate girl and her delicate sister, and, accompanied by the mother, made her way through the yard to the gate, where the pony had been eating as much of the hedge as he could manage with the bit in his mouth.  Before she had taken her seat Anne was aware of the weight on her mind, which told her that she was “appointed” to go and reason with Jane Evans, and, if possible, to persuade her to leave the man.

She was discouraged by the unstinting condemnation of the mother and girls, and began to be sore that she had not received a word of sympathy for the girl.

“There’ll be a good many to throw stones,” she said, as she drove into her own yard and set about feeding the pony.  When she had finished, her mind was so overcharged that she had recourse to her usual outlet.  She began to pray aloud, not removing her bonnet or necktie, and seated as always on the stool at the fireplace.

“O God, my heavenly Father, I thank Thee that I may come to Thee however full of sin, and find Thee always ready.  And I come to Thee again to-night, repenting of my sin of omission in Thy sight.  For, O God my Father, I have not prayed for souls as I ought, and one soul who had little earthly guidance has gone astray from the flock.  If Thou hadst left me, O my Saviour, in what a state of misery I should be found to-night.  Yet I have been over-anxious about my own salvation, and forgotten those who are in temptation.  Have mercy upon me, and save them.  Give me, O loving Father, a mouth and wisdom.  Help me to point out to this soul the error of her ways.  Help me, more than all, to ’hate the sin with all my heart, but still the sinner love,’ and grant that there may be joy in the presence of the angels of God over a returning and repenting soul, for Thy mercy’s sake.  Amen.”

CHAPTER VIII

Next day Anne arose to be at once aware of the heavy task before her.  As she set her house in order she would stop abstractedly and sit down to think what was best to be done.  Then she would work feverishly as if that, at any rate, was a thing that could be accomplished.

It was a wet day, chilly and rueful.  There were not even clouds in the sky to vary the steady grey, and the heaven itself seemed to have slipped from its height and to be close upon the earth.  Trees, grass, hedges were drenched, and remained motionless with leaves drooping under an added weight.  The ditches were noisy, but beyond the occasional rattle of a cart there was no other sound than the rain, a sound so unvaried that it presently became as a silence, and one imagined that the world had ceased to have