"I have a lot of suggestions to make to you, but we will wait till after lunch."
Louise felt as if she were in a dream. The dainty lunch, the little girls' chatter at it, and Anstice's happy charm in making all feel pleased with themselves, made her long to stay in such an atmosphere for ever.
When the meal was over, Anstice took her to her private sitting-room. It had been a very dull apartment before Anstice had taken it in hand. Now it was perfectly charming, with its fresh chintzes and soft cream-papered walls. Flowers and potpourri pots and some delicate old china adorned the mantelshelf, and the top of a low book-case in a recess by the fireplace. A work-table and writing-desk showed that the room was for use as well as for rest. A couch was drawn up under one window, two easy chairs were in the other, and Anstice, now gently putting Louise in the most comfortable chair, seated herself opposite her. From the open window in front of them was wafted in the scent of the new-mown hay in the park, whilst the children's happy voices, as they played about in it, brought a smile to Anstice's face.
Louise's lips quivered, then suddenly she lowered her head, and began to sob.
"I wish I was a child again. I wish I had a mother living. I am so utterly alone."
"I suppose your uncle is wrapped up in his books?" asked Anstice gently. "But has he no visitors? My experience of country vicarages is that there are always people coming and going."
"We never have any visitors. Our church and parish seem so far away from any others that we are completely forgotten and ignored."
Then, as she talked on, Anstice soon learnt the real cause of the girl's bitterness. In the sorrow of her soul she poured it into her ears. It was a pitiful little love story. One day, as she had been polishing the brasses in the tiny church, a stranger with a camera had walked in. He had asked questions about the neighbourhood which Louise had been able to answer. They had walked about together, had become very friendly, and then as he was lodging at a farm near, and had fishing rights in the lake, they met again the next day. He was handsome and plausible; he amused himself by flattering her and drawing out her best qualities. She, simple girl as she was, fell headlong in love with him. And after three weeks of love-making, she considered herself engaged to him. He was going back to London; they had a mutual friend there, a school friend of hers, a fellow art student with him. He seemed to be a dabbler in many things. He did a little journalism, a little painting, sent his photos to a Black and White Magazine, and was author of a small book of poems. When he had gone, she felt her life a blank, but looked forward to his letters. She received one, and then no more. After two months of agonized waiting, she heard through her friend that he was engaged to another girl, and had alluded to his time down at the Lake end as an "amusing episode." Then the iron entered into her soul, and Anstice saw that even now, after four years had passed, the blow was still heavy.
She put her arms in a motherly fashion round the girl.
"Oh, Louise," she said, "life is bigger than you think it. The time will come when you too will look back, and treat the past as only an episode. You have done nothing dishonourable; we women often love and trust too much. Put it from you, dear. And now listen! I have a dozen schemes for your good. How would it be to advertise for a paying guest? Londoners would revel in your quiet, tranquil little nook, and many a hard-worked girl would love the seclusion of your life. It would be an interest to you for all the summer months. You might even find some one who would like to stay the winter with you."