"Patient! I should think so!" Miss Pamela cried indignantly. "And to think how abominably he has served her from first to last! I could hardly keep my tongue still about him this afternoon when she was speaking of him, and looking all the while so fragile and slight as though a breath of wind would blow her away, yet withal so firm of purpose, and determined to remain with her father. 'He has no one in the world but me,' she said, 'and if I deserted him, what would become of him then?'"
"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold exclaimed, forgetting everything but her sympathy and admiration for Molly Jenkins, "how splendid of her!"
"Humph!" said Miss Pamela, "perhaps it was!"
Miss Pamela was one of those folks who never do themselves justice in the sight of others. People often had a wrong impression about her, deeming her cold, proud, and hard, when in reality she was kind-hearted and sympathetic. She was not a favourite with her acquaintances, but she possessed a few friends who had known her long enough to be certain of her excellent intentions, her sterling worth. She was very true and faithful, and hated nothing so much as deception and sham; therefore, when Marigold's father had come to her with the story of his marriage, her indignation had known no bounds, and she had jumped to the false conclusion that his wife had induced him to keep the secret from his aunts, for fear of their disapproval. She had not allowed him to enter into any explanations, and they had parted in anger, never to meet again, whilst she continued to harbour bitter thoughts against the woman who had been the cause of the breach between them. Only since she had known Marigold had she entertained any doubts as to her conduct in the matter having been right. There had sprung up in her heart a warm affection for her dead nephew's little daughter. She had fallen in with her sister's desire to take the child and educate her from a sense of duty; but now she loved Marigold dearly.
Marigold was like her father in appearance, she had his dark, beautiful eyes, she was sweet-tempered and kind-hearted, as he had been, and possessed his brave spirit; but Miss Pamela knew that the desire to do right, that was Marigold's strongest characteristic, must have been inculcated by the mother, and her alone. Miss Pamela's sentiments towards her nephew's widow had been decidedly modified since she had recognised that fact, though she had not acknowledged as much even to her sister.
Marigold was in a great state of excitement when Friday evening arrived at last, and she drove off with her aunts to Rocombe Farm. It was only three miles from Exeter, close to a pretty village, and not many minutes' walk from an old grey church which Miss Holcroft pointed out to the little girl as they passed, saying—
"I expect you will attend Divine service there on Sunday."
Marigold looked at the ancient building with interest, but it was soon lost to sight, and they were driving through the village, which consisted of a few thatched cottages, with two or three larger dwellings.
At length the carriage drew up in front of a long, low house with a porch in the centre, covered with roses and honeysuckle, and before which stretched a velvety lawn, edged with flower-beds. They alighted, and entered the garden through a wicket-gate at the moment the front door opened, and Mrs. Adams' small figure stepped lightly out to meet her visitors.
"I am so glad to see you all," she told them. "You dear little soul to accept my invitation!" she added, turning to Marigold and giving her a hearty kiss.