“You had better not go to the corn-field again,” said Nell.
And she acquiesced. She would not do anything strenuous for the rest of the day. The thought of her letter recurred to her, and she looked about but saw nothing of it. Evidently it had blown away.
After a brief interval she continued her journey to the house where Maggie joined them with kindly concern on her rosy face.
“You do look tired,” she said. “Come and sit down in the kitchen for a little and see Mother scalding the cream!”
The kitchen was oak-raftered and possessed an immense open fire-place with a brick oven at the side. Frances went in and was welcomed by Mrs. Dermot in her gentle, tired fashion, and made to sit down in a high-backed, wooden arm-chair.
The girls buzzed around her, and she had almost begun to forget her own pressing problem in the homely atmosphere when a sudden angry shout rang through the house, and in a moment every voice in the kitchen was hushed.
Frances, who was speaking to Mrs. Dermot at the moment saw her put her hand to her heart. Maggie came to her quickly and put an arm about her. But she spoke no word, and the silence was terrible.
Then from the stone passage outside came a voice, Arthur’s voice, short and peremptory.
“I’ll stand no more of this, and you know it. Let me pass!”
There was a brief pause, then an answering voice—the broken, quavering voice of an old man. “I have no wish to keep you here. You come into my room, tamper with my belongings, threaten me. I only ask you to go. What have I done that I should be treated like this?”