"I think that's different. To do what we were specially told not to do, in front of other people, is publicly to shame Uncle Edmund and Aunt Minna. Now my going for a breath of air was quite private; there was nobody to be scandalised."
"Well," observed Babs, "if you had been seen, half the village would have been scandalised."
"That's true," said Melicent thoughtfully. "I think I had better not do it any more; but it was very tempting, just to try."
On the following day, Gwen had neuralgia, and was in great pain.
"It's her bed," said Maddie, "it's in such a draught; and mine's no better. Mother says it's all right if we keep the window shut, but we can't sleep with the window shut, so we always get up and open it, after she has been in. I wonder we're not both blown away! I tell you what, Millie, I wish you'd let her sleep in your bed just for one night, to get rid of it. We don't want to tell mother, or she'll keep her indoors, and perhaps stop her from going to Clairvaulx on Monday."
"Why, of course I will!"
"Yes; but remember, we mustn't change till after mother has been round last thing."
"All right; Gwen had better slip in when the coast's clear," said Melicent unsuspiciously.
The change was duly effected, without detection, and next morning there was no doubt that Gwen's neuralgia was cured.
It was Sunday morning—a warm, sunny, October day, and the golden light streamed into the Vicarage breakfast-room. The girls were all assembled, waiting for breakfast, with newly brushed hair and clean frocks. All looked healthy, cheerful and glad. But the vicar's face, as he walked in, was in sharp contrast to the gay morning. More than the customary hush descended on his entrance.