Mother never scolded me at all for my adventure, and of course I was much more sorry than I should have been if she had done so.  
As I stood there in the cool, gray dawn, with my wet habit, the dew-drops still on the curls of my red hair, my face—I make no doubt—pale with , and my gray eyes at their darkest from the same cause, I suppose I looked rather a sorry spectacle, and one that melted her heart; anyhow, I know that she put her arm round me and gave me a hasty kiss before she pushed me forward to meet father. For a moment I felt something rise in my throat, and I suppose I ought by rights to have cried. But I did not cry; I was too happy in spite of it all, and luckily neither father nor mother was of those people who expect one to cry because one is sorry.
 
As I have said, they neither of them said a word of . I gave my explanation, and it was accepted; father only declared that it was a very good thing Trayton Harrod had met me when he did; and mother only remarked that "least said soonest mended." I suppose they were both glad to have me safe home. And that drive with father's bailiff, which had meant so much to me, was thus buried in sacred silence.
 
It was the day that Joyce was to come home. As I dressed myself again after the couple of hours' sleep, which I could not manage to do without, I remembered that it was the day for Joyce to come home. How was it that I had not thought of it? How was it that I had not thought of it all yesterday, nor for many yesterdays before it?
 
 
I was conscious that even my letters to my sister had been fewer and more hurried than they were at the beginning of her absence. I was angry with myself for it, for I would not have believed that any length of absence could have made her anything but the first person of importance in my life. But of course now that she was home again, everything would be as before.
 
I felt very happy to think that I was to see her again. I begged the gig to go down to the station and meet her myself. The was used to me now, so that even Joyce would not be nervous. Her face lit up with her own quiet smile as she saw me, breaking the curves of the sweet mouth, and depressing, ever so little, that short upper lip of hers, that always looked as if it had been pinched into its pretty . She looked handsomer than ever; I don't know whether it was because it was so long since I had seen her, but I thought she was far more beautiful than I had ever imagined. I pitied poor Frank more than ever for having to wait so long for a sight of her.
 
"Why, Meg," said she, as she came out with all her little parcels, "how tanned you are! I declare your hair and your face are just upon one color."
 
I laughed aloud merrily.
 
"Well, if my face is the color of my hair, it must be flame indeed," I cried. "But I've been out haymaking, you see, all the time that you, lazy thing, have been getting a white skin cooped up in a London . Oh, my dear! I wouldn't have been you."
 
"No, you wouldn't have liked it," answered she. "I was pleased to be of use to poor old aunt, but it was rather dull, and I must say I'm glad to be home."
 
"Everybody has missed you dreadfully," said I. "As for mother and Deb, they can't tell me often enough that I can't hold a candle to you."
 
"Oh, what nonsense, Meg!" murmured she. "You know well enough they don't mean it."
 
"My dear, I don't mind," cried I. "I know it well enough, and I can do my own bit of work in my own way all the same. But mother has missed you and no mistake," added I, "though as likely as not she won't let you guess it. She wanted you home long ago, only then Captain Forrester came down again."
 
A troubled shade came over Joyce's face, as I had noticed it come once or twice before, at mention of her lover's name.
 
"He came down for a few days a week ago, you know," I added. "I told you so, didn't I?" I was not quite sure whether I had even remembered to give that great piece of news.
 
"Oh yes, you told me," replied Joyce, in a slow voice.
 
"He inquired a great deal after you, of course," I went on. "He asked me to give you a great many messages."
 
She did not answer. A blush had crept up on her dainty cheek, as it was so apt to do. But we had reached the hill, and I jumped down and walked up it, giving her the to hold. And when we got to the top, Deborah was there hanging clothes in the back garden ready to catch the first sight of us along the road, and Reuben at the gate looking half asleep because he had been out the best part of the night with Barnstaple, looking for me in the fog. There was no time for any more private talk.
 
Mother, it is true, did not come to the gate, that not being her way, and when we got inside, you might have thought Joyce had been no farther than to market from the way in which she received her; but that meant nothing, it was only Maliphant manners, and father said no more than, "You're looking , child," before he took me away to write out his for him because his hand was stiff.
 
It was not till late in the evening that I got time to have a chat with Joyce in the dear old bedroom that she and I had always shared, and I was anxious for a chat. She had brought back two new gowns for us, and apart from all I had to say to her, I wanted to see the new gowns. I had never cared for clothes till quite lately; I used to be rather ashamed of a new frock, as though folk must think me a fool for wearing it, and had been altogether painfully wanting in the innocent vanity which is supposed to be one of a young girl's charms. But lately it had been different. I wanted to look nice, and I had my own ideas of how that was to be achieved. ! when I saw the gowns, I knew that they did not meet my views.
 
Joyce was settling her things—laying aside her few laces and ribbons with tender care; she opened the heavy old oak press and took out the gowns with pride. I think that she was so busy shaking them out that she did not see my face; I hope so, for I know it fell. The gowns were pale blue merino, the very thing for her dainty loveliness, but not, I felt , the thing for a rough, ruddy colt like me.
 
"Won't they spot?" said I, diffidently.
 
"That's what mother said," replied she, a little sadly; "but, dear me, they're our only best frocks; we sha'n't wear them o' bad weather."
 
I am so glad I said no more, for she had brought me a book from London—it was a novel by a famous author of whom we had heard; the author was a woman, and I had expressed a great wish to read it in consequence. I was very pleased to think that Joyce should have remembered it. I that I kissed her for it, and I thought no more about the frocks, I only felt that it was nice to have sister home. I had not known until now how much I had missed her.
 
"I wonder how we shall all get on when you go away for good and marry that young man of yours?" said I. "It don't seem as if the place were itself somehow when you are not there."
 
"Time enough to think of that when the day comes," answered Joyce, I thought a trifle sadly.
 
"Well, yes, maybe," said I, doubtfully; "and yet it isn't so very far off, you know. And if only you had a little more determination in you it might be a great deal nearer."
 
"You seem to be very anxious to get rid of me just as soon as you have got me home," said she, with just the merest tone of wounded sensibility in her voice.
 
Of course I laughed at that—it wasn't really worth answering. But I could have said that since three weeks ago, I had learned that which made me think it harder than ever that Joyce should be separated from the man she loved. I had not thought much of her or her concerns of late, but now that she was close to me I felt very sorry for her. When Joyce had gone away I had been conscious of a curious feeling of inferiority with regard to her as though she knew some secret which was to me sealed, but now—now I felt that there was a rent in the cloud that divided us; I felt that I could look into her world, I felt that I was on her level. And it was only with a more delicate feeling of sympathy than that I began to give her some of the messages with which Frank had intrusted me.
 
I could not exactly pretend that he had looked very , but I could assure her of his continued devotion to her, and this I did most . Somehow, when I had entered upon this task I began to feel that it was rather a queer compliment to assure a girl that her lover was not forgetting her, and I asked myself why I felt obliged to do it.
 
She listened quietly to all that I repeated to her of the short interview, but when I began to speak of my endeavors to induce mother to cut the term of the engagement short, she interrupted me with that air of determination which I knew there was no .
 
"Meg," she said, "I want you never to do that again. I want you to ............