"Can't afford it."
"But if her expenses were undertaken?
"That's not likely. And after all—the child is well. Her turn will come some day. No need yet."
"Well, if an offer does come—and I have a notion that it may—don't refuse, that is all. A few weeks or months abroad would do her no end of good."
"Not months." But the Rector had grown thoughtful. Mr. Stirling, satisfied to have set the stone rolling, went to the Rectory garden, and there came across Doris, busy with her pigeons. She wore a pink blouse and a holland skirt; and her pretty face, with its dusky hair and deep-set eyes, broke into smiles at the sight of him. The pigeons rose with their startled swish, and her mind reverted to Winnie Morris. Here was an opportunity! True, Winnie had asked her not to speak; but she had confidence in her own judgment; and of course she would not let slip that which she had promised not to mention.
"Real June weather," she remarked, forgetful by this time of her discontent. "Mr. Stirling, I want to say something. We went the other day to Wyldd's Farm—Katherine and Mrs. Brutt and I."
"So I hear."
"And we saw Farmer Paine's niece and her girls. I don't care for the elder one; but Winnie is sweet."
He made a hole in the bed with his walking-stick, and pushed neatly in a fallen leaf.
"You know them, don't you? Winnie said you had always been their friend. It sounded droll—put in that way!"—and she laughed. "That queer Mrs. Morris, and that vulgar Jane—and you!" She glanced up with girlish admiration at the pale dignified Squire. "But of course I knew what she meant. You have been good to them, as you are to everybody. But don't you think Winnie ought to see a doctor?"