"Susan," purred Mrs. Milo.
"Yes, mother." But Sue, halting beside Farvel, continued to talk to him animatedly, in an undertone.
"Will you kindly see that Dora understands about dinner preparations?"
"Hattie, do you mind ringing?"
Mrs. Milo held up a slender hand to check Hattie. "Susan," she went on, patiently, "do you want your mother to do the trotting after the servants?"
"No, mother. But Mr. Farvel's letters——"
Now that quick, mechanical smile, and Mrs. Milo tipped her head to one side as she regarded the clergyman in pretty concern. "Mr. Farvel is in no mood for dictation," she declared gently; "and—I am quite exhausted, as you know." But as Sue hurried away, not lifting her eyes, lest she betray how glad she was to be dismissed, her mother rose—and there was no appearance of the complained-of exhaustion. Her eyes shone with eagerness. They fastened themselves on Farvel's face. "That Miss Crosby," she began; "—she came, recognized Wallace, gave a cry—and ran."
Farvel listened politely. Mrs. Milo was so prone to be dramatic. There was scarcely a day that some warning of Wolf! Wolf! did not ring through the Rectory. "Well, what seemed to be the matter?" he asked.
"I thought you might know,"—with just a trace of emphasis on the You.
"I don't," he assured her, quietly.