Eva, feeling that matters had passed beyond her childish ken, had slipped away into the back garden, and was solacing her loneliness with a game with the new kitten that they had given her up at the farm, so the brother and sister were left alone. Tom understood something of the conflict that was passing in his sister's mind and wisely held his peace. He left her to the teaching of the still small voice which was making itself heard in her heart with gentle insistence.
"I suppose he never forgave me," she said at last.
"I did not hear him mention your name until his last illness. Then, when his mind wandered, your name was often on his lips, showing that you still held your place in his heart. He left you an annuity of £150 a year. Walter tried his level best to track you to tell you about it, but up to this time his search was quite unsuccessful. We wrote to the post-office authorities, but they did not help us; we gave your name to the leading firm of lawyers in Launceston and Hobart, we advertised in the local papers, but nothing came of any of our enquiries. Then I decided to come and work as a bush parson in the colonies for some years before settling down in an English parish, and I thought it not unlikely that I might find some clue to your whereabouts, and all in a moment I found you by the most unlikely means in the world. I stood watching two little children playing in a field near by, went in and made friends with them, and discovered in one of them my own little niece, who brought me straight home to mummy. Some people may call it a happy chance, but I prefer to regard it as a direct Providence."
"What made you come here at all?"
"The fact that your own parson broke down, as you know, quite suddenly, and was ordered away for rest; the bishop knew I was at work somewhere in this neighbourhood, and wrote to ask me if I could combine my peregrinations in the bush with Sunday services in this and the other churches connected with this parish until such time as he can find a locum. He is terribly short-handed at present. I'm very thankful to be able to give my services free of charge, for while the bulk of the property goes with the estate to Walter, my father has left me a sufficient income to make me independent of any stipend from the Church. If I take an English living at some future period it will be one with a simply nominal income that a man without private means could not accept. At present I find my nomadic life so absorbingly interesting that I have no immediate intention of returning home."
"And you will work near here? How wonderful and delightful! What a change one short half-hour has made in life's outlook. Poor father! Did he leave me that annuity out of pity, do you think? No, you need not be afraid that I shall refuse it. My pride is broken down. It seems a poor thing to have let it stand between him and me, and now—I can't even say I'm sorry."
"I forget the exact wording of the will, but I think it said 'lest she should come to want.'"
Clarissa flushed a little. "I have not wanted, but it's been a hard struggle, and if my health had failed"—her voice broke for a moment. "But now, with £150 a year at my back, the worst fear, the one that has kept me awake at nights sometimes, that the child would suffer, is entirely taken away. One can live the simple life out here, none despising you."
"And you think I shall be content to leave it at that?"
"You will have to be content," and his sister slipped her hand into his. "If I needed help at any time I know you will be glad to give it, but I chose my own life in marrying my George, and I'll abide by it. I've no wish to return to England, and what will keep me here in comfort would be grinding poverty at home."