'I am going to try to make you understand, Catherine!' cried Agatha resolutely. 'Ever since guardian adopted me I've heard praises of you—of your courage, and sincerity, and beauty, and talents—until you've become a sort of ideal to me. Do you see?'
'A very poor basis to found an ideal upon!' laughed Catherine.
'I know all about your Australian life—how you found out when the stockman (Jock was his name, wasn't it?) was being cruel to the cattle, and you told your stepfather about him, in spite of his threats of revenge. I've made a map of the station, and guardian marked the paddock-fence where your pony threw you when you were a child, and you called to your mother that you were "all right," though your leg was broken! I know how you used to spend your time, working for poor people, and trying to make the awful rough men kinder to their wives and children—and teaching the children about God and reading the Bible to invalids. Oh, you're a very satisfactory ideal, I assure you!'
Catherine's face was one bright blush at this enthusiastic commendation. She was about to protest against it, but Agatha went on eagerly:
'Don't contradict, please don't, for it's all true. I told you about it, so that you might leave off being surprised at my wanting you so much. You can't seem like a stranger. I made up my mind to love you, long before I guessed you'd come to England, so when your letter came this morning I went just wild with delight. Guardian said at once that you would live with us, and then I thought how beautiful life would be. There was nothing but happiness in my mind until then.'
She paused, frowning at the consideration of what came afterwards.
'Go on, dear,' said Catherine encouragingly.
'Then I found out that my wishes were all in a muddle too. Living in a cottage is so tedious! There's nothing to see, and nothing to do. Guardian's out a great deal, busy over the volunteers, and there's no one but Robert to help Harriet, so he can't be spared often to wheel my chair. I do most dreadfully want to go back to Carm Hall to live, to have nice food, and pretty rooms, and money to buy presents, and—oh, and everything I used to have! Now, I suppose, you think me horrid and mean!'
'No, dearie.'
'Uncle Ross—I always called him that, you know—won't make the first advance, so the quarrel won't ever be made up unless guardian tries to do it. He would if he wasn't so proud, for he's very unhappy about being at war with a brother. You should just hear him pray about it every morning and night,—for we've family prayers now, with Harriet and Robert,—his voice often shakes, and on Uncle Ross's birthday the prayers are ever so long. At Christmas, and Easter, and any home-anniversary, he is just wretched, Catherine. Yet he is too proud to be persuaded to make any more advances.'