Joan’s inclinations lay in a different line. Books were her prime interest, and parish work was distasteful. With “father” she would go anywhere, but in a cottage she always became shy and curt, and left all the talking to him. George tried in vain to awaken wider sympathies. All the outflow of Joan’s affections seemed to be at present towards him, and him alone. Still she was very kind to Nessie, and Nessie was very fond of Joan, in a gentle, colorless style.
A stranger would have been oddly struck with the contrast between the two, as they walked side by side that afternoon, along a high road, according to Joan’s prediction. Nessie could not endure wet grass or stiles; but she liked walking, and could manage a very considerable distance at a good pace. Naturally her tendency would have been to lounge languidly onward, but Joan never would permit this.
“I do love autumn,” Joan broke out, when they had plodded steadily for half an hour in silence—“next best to spring.”
“I don’t, because winter is coming,” said Nessie.
“Well—and spring comes after winter. One may enjoy each in turn. Nessie, suppose we turn down this lane, and go around by that queer old red house, with any amount of chimneys.”
“Mrs. St. John’s house.”
“I don’t know who lives there. We should just have time to do the round before dark, if we are quick. It is not too far for you?”
“Oh, no!” and Nessie turned obediently. “I thought you called there once with father.”
“No; he went in, and I didn’t. I hate calls. I can’t bear being introduced to people as Miss Brooke, and having remarks made on my name.”
“Well, you seem like one of us,” said Nessie placidly. “Is that why you never will call on anybody, if you can help it?”