“Pandora, when were you at confession?”
Pandora’s heart beat fast. “Not this week, Father.”
“Nor this month, maybe?”
“I am somewhat unsure, Father.”
“Went you to mass on Saint Chad’s Day?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And this Saint Perpetua?”
“No, Father; I had an aching of mine head, you mind.”
“Thomas,” interjected Mrs Collenwood, before the examination could proceed further, “give me leave, pray you, to speak a word, which I desire to say quickly, and you can resume your questioning of Pandora at after. I think to return home Thursday shall be a se’nnight; and, your leave granted, I would fain carry Pan with me. Methinks this air is not entirely wholesome for her at this time; and unless I err greatly, it should maybe save her some troublement if she tarried with me a season. I pray you, consider of the same, and let me know your mind thereon as early as may stand with your conveniency: and reckon me not tedious if I urge you yet again not to debar the same without right good reason. I fear somewhat for the child, without she can change the air, and that right soon.”
Pandora listened in astonishment. She was quite unconscious of bodily ailment, either present or likely to come. What could Aunt Frances mean? But Mr Roberts saw, what Pandora did not, a very significant look in his sister’s eyes, which said, more plainly than her words, that danger of some kind lay in wait for her niece if she remained in Kent, and was to be expected soon. He fidgeted up and down the room for a moment, played nervously with an alms-dish on the side-board, took up Cicero’s Orations and laid it down again, and at last said, in a tone which indicated relief from vexation—