"Thank you," said Enid gently.
She sat erect for a minute or two, then gradually sank back amongst her cushions, as if not equal to the task of maintaining herself upright. The Rector stood beside her, a look of trouble in his kind frank eyes.
"Shall I give you my arm back to the house?" he said, after a pause.
"Oh, no, thank you—I am not ill, Mr. Evandale!"
"But you are not well—at least, not very strong?"
"Well—no. No—I suppose that I am not very strong."
She turned away her head; but, notwithstanding the movement, he saw that a great tear was gathering underneath the veined eyelid, ready to drop as soon as ever it had a chance.
"Miss Vane," said the rector suddenly, "are you in any trouble? Excuse me for asking; but your face tells its own story. You were happier a year ago than you are now."
"Oh, yes," the girl sighed—"much happier!" and then the great tear fell.
"Can I do nothing to help you? My mission is to those who are in any trouble; and, apart from that, I thought once that you looked upon me as a friend." There was a touch of human emotion in the last words which seemed to bring him closer to Enid than the earlier sentence could have done. "But I know you have no need of me," the Rector added sorrowfully; "you have so many friends."