“Well, we’ll not argue the point,” said Oldroyd, laughing. “But I’ll go on. In their case no one interfered to set matters straight, and they only came right through the tender affection and good heart of the dearest little girl who ever lived.”
“You may say that again, Philip,” said Lucy, nestling to him, and looking up through a veil of tears; “but it isn’t a bit true. I’m afraid I was very, very weak, and proud and foolish, and I feel now as if I could never forgive myself for much that I have done.”
“I’ll forgive you, and you shall forgive me,” said Oldroyd. “And now I don’t think I need go on speaking in parables. I only wanted to point out the difference. Our trouble arranged itself without the help of friends. That of someone else ought soon to be set right, with two such energetic people as ourselves to help.”
“But sometimes interference makes matters worse,” sighed Lucy.
“Yes; because those who see about these matters are ignorant pretenders. Now, we are both duly qualified practitioners, Lucy, and, I think, can settle the matter right off, and cure them both.”
“But how? It is so dreadful.”
“Lucy, Lucy!”
It was a sharp, agonised call, as of one in extreme anguish, and, startled by the cry, Lucy sprang up and ran towards the house, closely followed by Oldroyd.
“Mamma, dear mamma, what is it?” she cried.
“Your brother. Oh, thank heaven, Mr Oldroyd, you are here.”