Mrs. Russelthorpe turned silently away; and Meg sat down on the doorstep and waited, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the grey church, where the parson and George Sauls were dawdling over inscriptions.
How long she waited she did not know; it might have been half an hour, it might have been five minutes; but she had no doubt as to the result of the message: she could never quite outlive her faith in her father.
She sprang to her feet on hearing a step behind her. "He is awake!" she cried. Her aunt looked away from her; past her into the garden.
"Yes," she said in a dry voice. "He is awake—but he will not see you."
Meg drew her breath quickly, as if she had been physically hurt. "He—he did not mean it," she said. "You have not understood—he did not mean that—he will not. Tell me the words he said."
"He said," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, "'Where would be the use? If she is happy, what have I to say? If she is unhappy—why, as we sow, we reap; both she and I, both father and child.' Those were his very words—and he was right."
Meg looked at her with a strange mournful smile. "Oh, yes, he was right. Tell father he was quite right." And she turned and went.
The parson and Mr. Sauls came back to the parsonage five minutes later. Mrs. Russelthorpe was still standing in the garden; and Mr. Sauls, whose short-sighted eyes saw rather more than most people's, noticed at once that she looked worn and tired.
"Is Mr. Deane worse?" he asked.