“Is Kenminster more unreasonable than formerly?”
“Not Kenminster, but Woodside. I say, Mr. Ogilvie, you haven’t any one at St. Cradocke’s who will send Armine and Babie to walk three miles and back in the rain for a bit of crimson cord and tassels?”
“I trust not,” said Mr. Ogilvie, smiling. “That is the way in which good people manage to do so much harm.”
“I’m glad you say so,” cried Jock. “That woman is worse for him than six months of east wind. I declare I had a hard matter to get myself to go to Church there the next day.”
“Who is she?”
“The sister of the Vicar of Woodside, who is making him the edifying martyr of a goody book. Ah, you know her, I see,” as Mr. Ogilvie looked amused.
“A gushing lady of a certain age? Oh yes, she has been at St. Cradocke’s.”
“She is not coming again, I hope!” in horror.
“Not likely. They were there for a few months before her brother had the living, and I could quite fancy her influence bringing on a morbid state of mind. There is something exaggerated about her.”
“You’ve hit her off exactly!” cried Jock, “and you’ll unbewitch our poor boy before she has quite done for him! Can’t you come down with me on Saturday, and propose the plan?”