“What did he mean? asked Margot breathlessly.
“Well, of course, dad’s the rector, and I suppose he wanted to see him. I felt a most awfully frightened feeling, especially as I could see by the light of the carriage-lamp that his eyes looked frightfully queer; but he seemed so very old and ill that you couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.”
“And what did you say?” asked Josy excitedly.
“I said that dad had just gone away for a week, and asked if he would like to see the curate?”
“And then——?” Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Stella, all brushes were suspended from their operations, and undressing was forgotten.
“Then he just turned and muttered as he went, and I could have sworn I heard him say something about a ‘confession’! He went off across the moor towards the ‘Little House.’”
“Oh, and what did you do then?” urged Margot almost in a frenzy. “You didn’t leave him like that? So miserable and old!”
“I had to,” declared Stella. “I told mother, of course, and she told the curate, and he went on Sunday afternoon and knocked ever so many times at the door of the house; but he couldn’t get any answer, though he thought he heard sounds inside, and in the end he had to come away.”
“And then——?” Margot’s voice was quite harsh in its eagerness.
“Oh, well, that’s all, I suppose,” announced Stella; “only I thought as you and Gretta are so keen about the ‘Little House’ that you’d like to know.”