“What do you mean?” asked Edgar, leaning down a little nearer to Grace, who sat propped up in a funny, old easy chair behind the driving seat.
“I mean that if Bertha happens to care for you, it is rather hard on her that she should never have a chance of choosing happiness with you, and all because she has made the very best use of the gift that was in her,” Grace answered, in a spirited tone.
“Do you think——?” began Edgar, with a gleam of hope lighting up his eyes, which were apt to look a little sombre.
“I don’t think anything, and I would not tell you if I did,” Grace replied crossly. “I only say that if you care for Bertha, as you say that you do, it is your duty to tell her so.”
“And to get flouted for my pains, maybe,” said Edgar moodily.
“If you have such a poor opinion of Bertha as to think that she could be guilty of such meanness, your love cannot be worth much,” retorted Grace.
“Don’t be too hard on him, wife. I have felt very much the same myself in days gone by,” said Tom, with a laugh, and then he began to talk of the advisability of sowing oats and potatoes, as well as wheat, for the next harvest, and the conversation did not come near matters purely personal again during the remainder of that long, slow drive.
It was a week later still when a letter came from Hilda which contained tidings of importance for Bertha. Hilda was intending to sail for Australia, where, with her European training fresh upon her, she intended setting up for herself in Adelaide. She wanted to have a home of her own, and she was quite positive that she could soon get a teaching connection large enough to support herself and Bertha, and with Anne only fifty miles away, it would be almost like the old days at Mestlebury over again. So she begged that Bertha would give up her position as hired girl in Cousin Tom’s household and come to Australia without delay.
“What cool impudence, to call you a hired girl!” growled Tom, who had long ago taken quite an unreasonable prejudice against bright, capable Hilda.