Kitty knew that; but everything seemed trifling in comparison with this affair of Aunt Pike, and she drove on in a state of mutiny and misery very hard to bear, until by-and-by another comforting thought came to her.  If she could not recall that letter, perhaps she could induce her father to write another to her aunt, telling her that after all he had made other arrangements, and that there was no occasion to trouble her.  She would not say anything about it now though, and presently other things occurred which helped to banish for the moment this particular trouble from her mind.

By the time they reached Welland it was very nearly dark, and Kitty felt not a little nervous as she guided Prue through the gate leading into the Manor grounds; for the turning was an awkward one, and the gate not wide.  She managed it, however, and drove along the drive and drew up before the door in quite a masterly fashion.

“I had better light the lamps by the time you come out,” she said to her father as he got down from the carriage; but before he could tell her that One of the stablemen would probably come and see to the lamps and Prue too, the hall door was opened by an anxious-faced maid.

“We are glad you have come, sir,” she exclaimed.  “The master seems very bad, and the mistress is very anxious.”

“I will be with your master in a moment,” said the doctor cheerfully; then, turning again to Kitty, “Hadn’t you better come inside, dear?  You—­”

“Oh no,” cried shy Kitty, to whom the suggestion was full of horror.  “Oh no.  I would much rather stay here, please, father.  It is cooler now, and I am very comfortable;” and Dr. Trenire, understanding her nature, let her have her way, and followed the impatient maid to the sickroom.

Kitty, greatly relieved, was fastening the reins to the splashboard before getting down to light the lamps, when a man appeared around the corner of the house, and came towards her.

“You had better go inside, miss, hadn’t you?” he said, speaking as though he were bidding her to go rather than asking her a question.  “I’ll look after the mare.”

“Thank you,” said Kitty decisively, “I would rather stay here.”

“I think we’m going to have a storm, and you’ll get wet through before the doctor comes out.  I reckon he’ll be some time.”

Kitty felt strongly inclined to say she would like nothing better than to get wet through, and that she preferred sitting out in a storm to anything else in the world.  Why couldn’t people let her do as she liked best?  It seemed to her that it was only for her to want to do one thing, for every one to conspire to make her do another.  And how aggravating it was to have the man glued to Prue’s bridle all the time, as though Prue ever needed holding, or Kitty were absolutely incapable!  He was not at all a pleasant man; he spoke very sulkily and never smiled.  She wished for his departure even more fervently than he, she felt, was wishing for hers, but she could not summon up courage to tell him to go, nor could she get over her irritation with him sufficiently to talk to him.  So there they stayed in gloomy silence, and Kitty, to add to her annoyance, was made to feel that she was acting foolishly, and ought to have done what she particularly objected to doing.