It was a shock to both girls. A shock to Merryl, to find that she had been depriving Magda of her expected enjoyment. A shock to Magda, to find those two in happy and confidential talk, and to see how much Ned liked it. More than this she did not see, but it was enough. She flushed up hotly.
"Ned! You here!" she cried. And then in a tone of sharp rebuke. "Why didn't you tell me, Merryl? It's too bad!"
The sound of that angry voice, the sight of Merryl's grieved face, made together an impression on Fairfax which time would not efface.
"I'm so sorry; I did mean to call you," faltered Merryl.
"You must not blame your sister," Ned said gravely. "She only did what I asked her to do. I particularly wished to come and see the little glass-house."
"Merryl had no business—your last day—and when she knew—"
"I'm so sorry!" Merryl repeated, tears in her eyes. "I quite forgot! But I'm going now, dear. Good-bye, Mr. Fairfax!" And with one glance at him, she literally fled.
That scene showed Ned more than he had yet discovered about his quondam "chum."
Magda cooled down when she had him to herself; and he noted that she did not seem troubled about her own outburst of annoyance. He said nothing, and allowed her to run on as usual; but his mind was very much astray—wandering after Merryl. He registered a silent determination that, next time he came to the Vicarage, things would have to be different.