“I have thought her altered myself, by the great grief of last year. Spiritually, it has developed her, I believe. But there is a sustained melancholy about her, an absence of all hopeful reaction such as one looks for from youth, that is certainly not wholly natural. You, too, have observed it?”
“Yes.”
Lucilla had observed a great deal more besides, and she was at a loss for a definition of her secret, latent fears.
“Flossie has become very irritable,” she said at last, voicing the least of her anxieties.
“My dear, is that perfectly kind? Flora has had much to try her, and your own absence in Canada threw a great deal for which she is scarcely fitted, upon her shoulders. I do so want you to overcome that critical spirit of yours, dear Lucilla. It has very often disturbed me.”
Lucilla thought for a moment, and decided, without resentment as without surprise, that it would be of no use to say that her observation had not contained any of the spirit of criticism at all. She said instead:
“She doesn’t sleep well, and she is always up very early.”
“She is always at the early Celebration, dear child,” said the Canon tenderly. “Our Flora’s religion is a very living reality to her—more so than ever, of late, I think.”
“It’s a pity that it should make her unhappy, instead of happy.”
“What are you saying, Lucilla?” the Canon enquired in highly-displeased accents.