waits for
the coming of the sun.

"'Tis 'urr! 'Tis 'urr!"

The vicar's wife, Mrs. Brent, who since the affair of John Wilson's fire
had dropped into the background and felt it indiscreet to present tales
of distress at the Court, began to recover her courage. Her perfunctory
visits assumed a new character. The vicarage had, of course, called
promptly upon Miss Vanderpoel, after her arrival. Mrs. Brent admired
Miss Vanderpoel hugely.

"You seem so unlike an American," she said once in her most tactful,
ingratiating manner--which was very ingratiating indeed.

"Do I? What is one like when one is like an American? I am one, you
know."

"I can scarcely believe it," with sweet ardour.

"Pray try," said Betty with simple brevity, and Mrs. Brent felt that
perhaps Miss Vanderpoel was not really very easy to get on with.

"She meant to imply that I did not speak through my nose, and talk too
much, and too vivaciously, in a shrill voice," Betty said afterwards, in
talking the interview over with Rosy. "I like to convince myself that
is not one's sole national characteristic. Also it was not exactly Mrs.
Brent's place to kindly encourage me with the information that I do not
seem to belong to my own country."

Lady Anstruthers laughed, and Betty looked at her inquiringly.

"You said that just like--just like an Englishwoman."

"Did I?" said Betty.

Mrs. Brent had come to talk to her because she did not wish to trouble
dear Lady Anstruthers. Lady Anstruthers already looked much stronger,
but she had been delicate so long that one hesitated to distress her
with village matters. She did not add that she realised that she was
coming to headquarters. The vicar and herself were much disturbed
about a rather tiresome old woman--old Mrs. Welden--who lived in a
tiny cottage in the village. She was eighty-three years old, and a
respectable old person--a widow, who had reared ten children. The
children had all grown up, and scattered, and old Mrs. Welden had
nothing whatever to live on. No one knew how she lived, and really
she would be better off in the workhouse. She could be sent to Brexley
Union, and comfortably taken care of, but she had that singular,
obstinate dislike to going, which it was so difficult to manage. She
had asked for a shilling a week from the parish, but that could not be
allowed her, as it would merely uphold her in her obstinate intention
of remaining in her cottage, and taking care of herself--which sh