“Do you think I may have been too severe with her?”
“It’s not for t’ likes o’ me to advise a leddy like you, but yon bairn needs to be treated gently, for all t’ wulld like a bit o’ delicate chiney. Noo, when Martin was younger, I’d gie him a slap ower t’ head, an’ he’d grin t’ minnit me back was turned. Your little gell is different.”
“In my place, would you go back for her now?”
“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t. That’d show weak. But I’d mek up for’t te-morrow. Then she’ll think all t’ more o’ yer kindness.”
So the regeneration of Angèle commenced. Was it too late? She was only a child in years. Surely there was yet time to mold her character in better shape. Mrs. Saumarez hoped so. She dried her tears, and, with Bolland’s appearance, the conversation turned on the lamentable weather. She was surprised to hear that August was often an unsettled month, though this storm was not only belated but almost unprecedented in its severity.
Mr. Herbert went to Nottonby early next day. He attended the funeral, heard the will read at Wetherby Grange in the presence of some disappointed cousins of the dead man, visited Betsy to say a few consoling words, and drove back to the vicarage through the unceasing rain.
Tea awaited him in the drawing-room, but his first glance at Elsie alarmed him. Her face was flushed, her eyes red. She was a most woebegone little maid.
“My dear child,” he cried, “what is the matter?”
“I want you—to forgive me—first,” she stammered brokenly.