Margaret could get no further definite help or suggestion from Mrs. Medhurst—in fact the above conversation had given her an uneasy sense of discomfort; it seemed as if her hostess, although she had sympathised, almost doubted her loss, and considered her personal carelessness was alone responsible.
This morning, as she made her way across the fields, she felt homesick, and almost wished she had never accepted her present post. Mrs. Crane had written more than once to ask if she was happy, and if everything was satisfactory in connection with this household. In fact, now she thought things over, it appeared as if some possibility of her environment not being satisfactory lurked in the minds of her old friends. In her last letter Mrs. Crane had said, "Be sure, my dear child, to tell me exactly all your views, and just what this situation means? Are the Medhursts the right kind of people? Your previous communications are rather vague; give us your full confidence—you know how dear you are to us. The Doctor wants especially to hear if you are quite content in every way with your surroundings; if not, be sure and come away to us at once."
Margaret had smiled when she had first read the above. Mrs. Crane's evident anxiety about her had seemed quite unnecessary at the moment; but now, in the light of her loss, she wondered if her old friends could possibly have heard anything disquieting about Oaklands.
"I won't answer that letter just yet," she murmured to herself. "What would they think if they knew? But oh, how I wish I could ask their advice!" She walked on unheeding the glory of the trees flushed with harlequin tints, and the rare sweetness of the fresh, hill-cooled breeze which swept over the common, dying into stillness and warmth as she entered the shelter of the woods. She presently sat down by the old oak, and, opening the book she had brought with her, tried to lose herself in the troubles of the heroine of Stepping Heavenwards, where the daily round and common task is so naturally described by an author who realised how truly these things furnish all we need to provide a battleground for those of us fighting the fight of faith, on our way towards home.
A rustle in the brushwood near presently roused Margaret's attention, and to her utter surprise Bob's face peered through the wooded density, and in another moment he had pushed his way into the open and flung himself at Margaret's feet.
"You, Bob!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "Why—where do you come from? This is only Friday—you are not due until to-morrow."
There was no answer. The boy had thrown himself face downward upon the mossy turf, and buried his face in his hands.
Margaret waited for a little, then, realising this meant something of moment to the boy, said gently:
"Bob, what is it? What has happened? Won't you tell me?"
A sound like a smothered groan fell from the boy's lips, then, bending her head, she caught the words: