“I am sure she would not say so, Judy,” I said, really not knowing what to say.

“Oh, no; she would not say so.  She would say, ’I always forgive, but I never forget.’  That’s a favourite saying of hers.”

“But, Judy, don’t you think it is rather hypocritical of you to say all this to me about your grandmother when she is so kind to you, and you seem such good friends with her?”

She looked up in my face with an expression of surprise.

“It is all true, Mr Walton,” she said.

“Perhaps.  But you are saying it behind her back.”

“I will go home and say it to her face directly.”

She turned to go.

“No, no, Judy.  I did not mean that,” I said, taking her by the arm.

“I won’t say you told me to do it.  I thought there was no harm in telling you.  Grannie is kind to me, and I am kind to her.  But Grannie is afraid of my tongue, and I mean her to be afraid of it.  It’s the only way to keep her in order.  Darling Aunt Winnie! it’s all she’s got to defend her.  If you knew how she treats her sometimes, you would be cross with Grannie yourself, Mr Walton, for all your goodness and your white surplice.”

And to my yet greater surprise, the wayward girl burst out crying, and, breaking away from me, ran through the gate, and out of sight amongst the trees, without once looking back.

I pursued my walk, my meditations somewhat discomposed by the recurring question:—­Would she go home and tell her grandmother what she had said to me?  And, if she did, would it not widen the breach upon the opposite side of which I seemed to see Ethelwyn stand, out of the reach of my help?

I walked quickly on to reach a stile by means of which I should soon leave the little world of Marshmallows quite behind me, and be alone with nature and my Greek Testament.  Hearing the sound of horse-hoofs on the road from Addicehead, I glanced up from my pocket-book, in which I had been looking over the thoughts that had at various moments passed through my mind that week, in order to choose one (or more, if they would go together) to be brooded over to-day for my people’s spiritual diet to-morrow—­I say I glanced up from my pocket-book, and saw a young man, that is, if I could call myself young still, of distinguished appearance, approaching upon a good serviceable hack.  He turned into my road and passed me.  He was pale, with a dark moustache, and large dark eyes; sat his horse well and carelessly; had fine features of the type commonly considered Grecian, but thin, and expressive chiefly of conscious weariness.  He wore a white hat with crape upon it, white gloves, and long, military-looking boots.  All this I caught as he passed me; and I remember them, because, looking after him, I saw him stop at the lodge of the Hall, ring the bell, and then ride through the gate.  I confess I did not quite like this; but I got over the feeling so far as to be able to turn to my Testament when I had reached and crossed the stile.