have been to go with the note and carte in my hand and show them to Miss C. December; but I did not care for forcing the girl's secret, and I had a strong curiosity to hear the Misses Douglas's account of her before I heard her account of them—to judge, in short, whether they were the kind of people I would like to throw her back upon.
I got a railway time-table and saw that I could reach Athelford by starting at 10.30—it was now a little past nine—so I could make my call and be back in the evening quite early; and I resolved to do this. I went to Christy: she was putting away the breakfast things, and humming a tune to herself in a low happy tone, like the murmur of bees on a summer morning, the outcome of busy gladness.
"You know," she said, "this is Margaret's washing-day, and I want to help her."
"Quite right," I said: "if you are to have a comfortable home, you must make yourself generally useful. I have to go from home on business which will take the whole day. Can you be left alone? What will you do with yourself?"
"I'll enjoy myself. I'll go to the kitchen and help Margaret to wash: I should like it of all things. May I?"
"Oh certainly, although washing is not an occupation I envy myself; but there's no accounting for tastes."
"My taste is not vulgar: in ancient Greece princesses used to wash."
"I am afraid they would spoil their hands."
"Ah, I'll let my hands take their chance. I'll take off my ring, though: I should not like it spoiled. It was a present, and I value it very highly."
She pushed her sleeves above her elbows. "I should like," she said with great animation, "to know how to do everything about a house, and to do it: you see, if I ever wanted to marry a man with very little money, it would be so necessary."
"It would indeed," I said. "Well, I hope you and Margaret will be good friends till I come back."
I had no feeling but of exhilaration as I walked to the railway station. A strong interest had come into my life: I had a stake in the world once more. After the months of unutterable dark, dreary, blank negation which I had endured, it was as if I had got life from the dead. It was a brilliant day of clear frost and sunshine: the first snow had never disappeared, and there had been a new fall in the night, the dazzling whiteness and purity of which was like the robes of those who had come out of great tribulation. Every unsightly object was covered with beauty as if for the passing of a king. As I bowled along I had a stirring sense of something to do and of doing something; not that I had not attempted always to keep myself busy, but since I had had no one to act for or to think or work for my diligence had seemed to me like that of Domitian, who busied himself catching flies.
I arrived at Athelford, and found my way to the outskirts of that small town, where the Misses Douglas resided, and to Athelford Lodge, their house. From a brass plate on the gate, I found it was an "institution for young ladies." So Miss C. December had run away from school, but why had she not run home? I should hear that immediately, likely. I was shown into a small room, the chief object in which was a piano—not the only one in the house, if I might judge from the sounds I heard on all sides of me. Shortly there came to me a lady, pleasant, responsible and stiff. We bowed.
"I came rather than telegraph," I said, and I held out the carte.
"Ah, about Miss Bird: then you were right. Is she with you?"
"Yes."
"I am so thankful: she has given us a world of anxiety. I could not describe it. I'll call my sister." She left the room for an instant, and came back. "It was such a shock to us—such a shock: nothing of the kind ever happened in our establishment before. Oh, I am thankful she is safe!"
Another lady entered. "My sister Euphemia," said the first—"Miss Cowan. Oh, Euphemia, Miss Bird is safe!"
