“What work do you want?” asked Mrs. Veale.  “I should have sent you out to service long ago, but I knew your aunt needed you at home.  Has she sent you?”

“No, ma’am,” answered Loveday, “I came of myself.  I want work I can do in my spare time, when Aunt Senath don’t need me.”

So far all was well; the scheme sounded fit for encouragement by the Church, ever anxious for the welfare of even her humblest children.  Mrs. Veale gave thought to her boots and knives ... no, the gardener’s boy did them, and he was being prepared for confirmation and must not be unsettled.  The mending ... that was done by the housemaid in her spare time, superintended by Mrs. Veale herself, and it would not be fair to the girl to leave her with idle hands for Satan’s use when they could be employed instead upon sheets and stockings.  The washing ... the housemaid’s mother came to do that, glad to do so at a reasonable price for the opportunity of seeing how her daughter prospered from week to week under such care as Mrs. Veale bestowed on all the maids whom she trained.  The spring cleaning ... a girl who did not know the ways of the house would make work instead of saving it.  Yet Mrs. Veale felt, as a Christian woman, that it was her duty to encourage Loveday even at the cost of her own china.  She resolved to do so.

“Many people would not help you, Loveday,” she said, “for it is very difficult to find work suddenly without upsetting the ways of a household, but you are my god-daughter, and so I have always taken a special interest in you.  My spring-cleaning is not till May this year, as then the Vicar goes away to stay with his lordship, the Bishop of Exeter, and I will have you here under my own eye.  You will not be of much assistance at first, but if you are willing and do as you are told you will be able to learn.”

At the mention of the month of May the wings of Loveday’s heart folded once more and let her heart fall like a stone, then opened in a fluttering attempt to save it.

“What—­what time in May, ma’am?” she asked.  Perhaps it would be the first week in that month and all would yet be well, since the Flora was held upon the eighth.

At Mrs. Veale’s next words the wings moulted away, and the bare quills left Loveday’s heart prone and defenceless.

“Not till the second week,” said Mrs. Veale, “for the Vicar wishes to stay till the Flora, as we are permitting Miss Letitia to dance in the procession this year, and naturally he wishes to be there.  The Vicar feels that these old innocent customs must not be allowed to fall into disuse.”

“Ah!” cried Loveday, “’tis no good to me!”

At this shocking speech—­imagine a village girl crying out that an offer of employment from the Vicarage is of no good to her!—­Mrs. Veale drew such a breath of horror that the hair of the late Canon rose in its locket.

“What on earth can you mean, Loveday Strick?”