That night, after Missy had put the children to bed in her own room, as she went down stairs, she heard St. John sending a servant in to ask Mr. Andrews if he would see him for a few moments.
"St. John," she exclaimed, in a low voice, joining him. "Why do you send in? It is his place to send for you. I would not do it, really. I—I hate the man. I told him you would tell him everything, and he has been here four hours at least, and has never sent for you. I don't believe he wants to hear anything. I have no doubt he has had a good dinner and is reading the paper. May be he will ask you to join him with a cigar."
"Don't be uncharitable, Missy," said her brother, walking up and down the room.
"But why do you send?" persisted his sister. "He doesn't want to see you, or he would have sent."
"But I want to see him. So, Missy, don't let us talk about it any more."
It was evident to his sister that St. John did not anticipate the meeting with much pleasure. He was a little restless, for him, till the servant came back with a message, to the effect that Mr. Andrews would be very glad to see Mr. Varian at once, if he were at liberty to come. St. John looked rather pale as he kissed his sister good-night (for he was not coming back, but going directly home to the rectory), and she felt that his hand was cold.
"He is young for such experiences," she said to her mother, as she sat down beside her sofa in the summer twilight.
"He doesn't seem young to me any longer," returned her mother.
"A few days such as this would make us all old," said Missy, with a sigh, leaning her face down on her mother's arm. "Mamma, I am sure this interview is very painful to St. John. I am sure he has been charged with something to say to her husband, by that poor soul. How I wish it weren't wrong to ask him what it was. But,"—with a sigh—"I suppose we shall never know."
"Never, Missy. But we can be charitable. And when you are my age, my child, you will be afraid to judge any one, and will distrust the sight of your own eyes."