“If she is,” said Delia to herself, suddenly stopping to snap off the head of a snapdragon which grew in an angle of the old red wall—“if she is—if she dares—if she doesn’t see that the Professor is worth more than all the people in Dornton—I will despise her—I will—”
She stopped and shook her head.
“And if it’s the other way, and she loves and honours him as she ought, and is everything to him, and, and, takes my place, what shall I do then? Why, then, I will try not to detest her.”
She laughed a little as she stooped to gather some white pinks which bordered the path, and fastened them in her dress.
“Pretty she is sure to be,” she continued to herself, “like her mother, whom they never mention without praise—and she is almost certain to love music. Dear old Professor, how pleased he will be! I will try not to mind, but I do hope she can’t play the violin as well as I do. After all, it would be rather unfair if she had a beautiful face and a musical soul as well.”
The bell stopped, and the succeeding silence was harshly broken by the shrill whistle of a train.
“There’s the five o’clock train,” said Delia to herself; “to-morrow by this time she will be here.”
Mrs Winn and Miss Gibbins meanwhile had pursued their way home together, for they lived close to each other.
“It’s a pity Delia Hunt has such blunt manners, isn’t it?” said the latter regretfully, “and such very decided opinions for a young girl? It’s not at all becoming. I felt quite uncomfortable just now.”
“She’ll know better by-and-by,” said Mrs Winn. “There’s a great deal of good in Delia, but she is conceited and self-willed, like all young people.”