"That must be very trying. I know what that means to an old lady who has not many ways of occupying herself. I was making the same observation at home this morning."
"With regard to your mother?"
"Oh, no. My mother died when I was little more than a boy. But I have an aunt living with me, who must be nearly seventy years old, and she was telling me to-day that she could scarcely see to read."
"Oh," said Lettice, with a rush of blood to her face, "is Mrs. Bundlecombe your aunt?"
"Yes," he said, looking rather surprised, "you spoke as if you knew her. Did you ever see Mrs. Bundlecombe?"
"I—I had heard her name."
"At Angleford? Or Thorley?"
"Of course, I heard of Mr. Bundlecombe there."
"Is it not strange," Alan said, after a short pause, "that I never knew you came from Angleford until that morning when I brought you one of your father's books? Then I asked my aunt all about you. I was never at Angleford in my life, and if I had heard the rector's name as a boy I did not recollect it."
"Yes, it is strange. One is too quick at coming to conclusions. I have to beg your pardon, Mr. Walcott, for I really did think that—that Mrs. Bundlecombe was your mother, and that——"