“You are not well, my dear Miss Methvyn,” she exclaimed at last. “I am perfectly certain you are over-tired, or anxious, or something.”
Cicely started. “No, indeed, I am not,” she replied hastily, “I am quite well, I assure you, Miss Winter. I am only very rude and selfish—I am a little dull, perhaps,” she added hesitatingly, “but it is very silly of me.”
She stifled a little sigh—she could not tell Miss Winter that for, as far as she could remember, the first time in her life, Trevor had to-day spoken unkindly and hurtingly to her.
“Everybody is dull sometimes,” said Miss Winter consolingly.
“Are you?” said Cicely. Then it struck her the question was a thoughtless one, and she looked up quickly to see if Miss Winter felt it to be such. “I beg your pardon,” she added hurriedly.
But there was no annoyance visible in the old maid’s kindly face. A face that had once been young and round and pretty, perhaps, thought Cicely with a sort of dreamy pity as she looked at it,—a face that still lighted up cheerily at small enough provocation.
“Why should you beg my pardon, my dear?” she exclaimed. “Of course, I am dull sometimes, but I try not to give way to it. You know, my dear, it is part of the business of my life to be cheerful.”
Poor Miss Winter! Cicely pitied her more than ever she had done before. But the little diversion of thought had been salutary.
They drove to afternoon church in the Lingthurst brougham, and when the service was over Miss Methvyn’s pony carriage was waiting for them. So Cicely had no more talk with Trevor alone. But as he was putting the reins in her hand, at the church door, he whispered, “You didn’t think me cross to-day; did you, dear? I am very sorry if I seemed so.”
A grateful glance was all the reply she had time for, but she drove home with a lighter heart.