But I could not forget the face that had so interested me; and when I encountered Uncle Max on his way to the children’s service I questioned him at once about the two ladies.

‘Yes, you are right, Ursula,’ he said, a little absently.  ’The one with fair hair was Miss Gladys:  her cousin, Miss Darrell, sat by Hamilton.’

‘But you never told me how beautiful she was,’ I replied, in rather an injured voice.  ’She has a perfect face, only it is so worn and unhappy-looking.’

‘You must not keep me,’ observed Max hurriedly; ’Miss Darrell wants to speak to me before service.’  And he rushed off, leaving me standing in the middle of the path rather wondering at his abruptness, for the bell had not commenced.

A little farther on, I came face to face with Miss Darrell; she was walking with Mr. Tudor, and seemed talking to him with much animation.

She bowed slightly, as he took off his hat to me, in a graceful well-bred manner, but her face prepossessed me even less than it had done in the morning.  She had keen, dark eyes like Mr. Hamilton’s, only they somehow repelled me.  I was somewhat quick with my likes and dislikes, as I had proved by the dislike I had taken to Mr. Hamilton.  This feeling was wearing off, and I was no longer so strongly prejudiced against him.  I might even find Miss Darrell less repelling when I spoke to her.  She was evidently a gentlewoman; her movements were quiet and graceful, and she had a good carriage.

I was somewhat surprised on reaching the cottage to find Mr. Hamilton sitting by my patient.  He had Janie on his knee, and seemed as though he had been there for some time, but he rose at once when he saw me.

‘I was waiting for you, Miss Garston,’ he said quietly.  ’I wanted to give you some directions about Mrs. Marshall’; and when he had finished, he said, a little abruptly—­

’What made you so long coming out of church this morning?  I was waiting to introduce my sister and cousin to you, but you were determined to disappoint me.’

I was a little confused by this.

‘Did you recognise me?’ I asked, rather tamely.

‘No,—­not in that smart bonnet,’ was the unexpected reply.  ’I did not identify the wearer with the village nurse until I heard your voice in the Te Deum:  you can hardly disguise your voice, Miss Garston:  my cousin Etta pricked up her ears when she heard it.’  And then, as I made no answer, he picked up his hat with rather an amused air and wished me good-bye.

I was rather offended at the mention of my bonnet; the little gray wing that relieved its sombre black trimmings could hardly be called smart,—­a word I abhorred,—­but he probably said it to tease me.

‘Ay, the doctor has been telling us you have a voice like a skylark,’ observed Elspeth, ’but I have been thinking it must be more like an angel’s voice, my bairn, since you mostly use it to sing the Lord’s praises, and to cheer the sick folk round you:  that is more than a skylark does.’