"Among everything," said Mrs. Caxton. "There is a great deal to do. Don't you want to help, Eleanor? You may plant gladiolus bulbs—or you may make cuttings—or you may sow seeds. I can find you work."
"Aunty, I am going down to the village."
"O it is Wednesday afternoon!" said Mrs. Caxton. And she came close up to her niece and kissed her, while one hand was full of bulbs and the other held a trowel. "Well go, my dear. Not at peace yet, Eleanor?"—
There was so tender a tone in these last words that Eleanor could not reply. She dashed away without making any answer; and all along the way to Plassy she was every now and then repeating them to herself. "Not at peace yet, Eleanor?"
She was in a tender mood this afternoon; the questions and remarks addressed to the other persons in the meeting frequently moved her to tears, so that she sat with her hand to her brow to hide the watering eyes. She did not dread the appeal to herself, for Mr. Rhys never asked her any troublesome questions; never anything to which she had to make a troublesome answer; though there might be perhaps matter for thought in it. He had avoided anything, whether in his asking or replying, that would give her any difficulty there, in the presence of others,—whatever it might do in her own mind and in secret. To-day he asked her, "Have you found peace yet?"
"No," said Eleanor.
"What is the state of your mind—if you could give it in one word?"
"Confusion."
"What is it confused about? Do you understand—clearly—the fact that you are a sinner? without excuse?"
"Fully!"