At all events Frances found that her guardian offered no further definite opposition to her wishes.
“Mind you, my child, I don’t approve of what you’re doing,” Bertha told her gravely, “but neither your Cousin Frederick nor I wish to forbid it definitely. As you know, I’m not very much bound by any creed myself, so perhaps I don’t attach as much importance to your leaving the Church of England as other people may. So long as we all keep as straight as we can and play the game it doesn’t seem to me to matter very much what we call ourselves. So I’m going to leave you free to make your own choice, my little Francie.”
“I wish you didn’t mind—I wish I hadn’t got to make you unhappy,” said Frances in tears.
Bertha kissed her.
“My poor little girl, I wish I’d never let these people get hold of you and your poor little conscience.”
Frances immediately drew herself away, colouring.
“What! Mustn’t I even criticize them?” said Bertha, half sadly, half playfully. “Fathers and mothers get left alone in the old nest very quickly, when the young birds first find their wings, Francie. You’ll find that out one day.”
Frances told herself, with a quick pang of compassion, that Cousin Bertie was thinking as much of Hazel as of her.
“It won’t make any difference,” she faltered anxiously, hardly knowing what she said. “At least——”
“Ah! At least——” said Bertha, laughing a little. “Well, my Francie, you’re joining the Church into which your mother was born, and I hope with all my heart that you’ll find all you expect there. And your old heretic guardian will be in a corner in the chapel when you’re received, praying for whatever is best for you.”