“I don’t know,” said Anna. “I only saw Delia for a minute. He was asleep. I am to go again. Oh, Aunt Sarah,” with a burst of sobs, “I do wish I had not gone to the picnic. I wish I had behaved better to my grandfather. I wish—”
Mrs Forrest laid her hand kindly on Anna’s shoulder.
“My dear,” she said, “you distress yourself without reason. We can rely on Dr Hunt’s opinion that your grandfather only needs rest. Sleep is the very best thing for him. When you go this evening, you will see how foolish you have been. Meanwhile, try to exercise some self-control; occupy yourself, and the time will soon pass.”
She turned to her gardening again, and Anna wandered off alone. Aunt Sarah’s calm words had no comfort in them. Delia’s severest rebuke, even Mrs Winn’s plain speech, would have been better. She went restlessly up to her bedroom, seeking she hardly knew what. Her eye fell on the little brown case, long unopened, which held her mother’s portrait. Words, long unthought of, came back to her as she looked at it.
“If you are half as good and beautiful,” her father had said; and on the same day what had been Miss Milverton’s last warning? “Try to value the best things.”
“Oh,” cried Anna to herself as she looked at the pure, truthful eyes of the picture, “if I only could begin again! But now it’s all got so wrong, it can never, never be put right!”
After a while, she went into the garden again, and avoiding Mrs Forrest, crossed the little foot-bridge leading into the field, and sat down on the gate. The chimneys of Leas Farm in the distance made her think of Daisy, and the old days when they had first met, and she had been so full of good resolves. Daisy, and the good resolves, and Delia too, seemed all to have vanished together. She had no friends now. Every one had deserted her, and she had deserved it!
She was sitting during those reflections with her face buried in her hands, and presently was startled by the sound of a little voice behind her.
“What’s the matter?” it said.
It was Daisy Oswald, who had come through the garden, and now stood on the bridge close to her, a basket of eggs in her hand, and her childish, freckled face full of wonder and sympathy.