Then she rises, and, having left behind her three socks that no earthly power can ever again draw upon a child's foot, so hopelessly has she brought heel and sole together, she says good-by to Mrs. Redmond, and leaves the room.
Outside on the avenue she encounters the vicar, hurrying home.
"Turn with me," she says, putting her hand through his arm. "I have something to say to you."
"Going to be married?" asks he, gayly.
"Nonsense!"—blushing, in that he has so closely hit the mark. "It is not of anything so paltry I would unburden my mind."
"Then you have nothing of importance to tell me," says the vicar; "and I must go. Your story will keep: my work will not. I am in a great hurry: old Betty Martin——"
"Must wait. I insist on it. Dying! nonsense! she has been dying every week for three years, and you believe her every time. Come as far as the gate with me."
"You command, I obey," says the vicar, with a sigh of resignation, walking on beside his pet parishioner. "But if you could only understand the trouble I am in with those Batesons you would know some pity for me."
"What! again?" says Clarissa, showing, and feeling, deep compassion.
"Even so. This time about the bread. You know what unpleasant bread they bake, and how Mrs. Redmond objects to it; and really it is bad for the children."