"You went!—after my expressed wish to the contrary! That was unlike you."

Katherine showed dismay.

"But I did not understand. I am very sorry. Did you really mean—?"

"I meant precisely what I said."

She tried to recall what he had said.

"I thought you were only warning me to be careful—advising me not to see too much of the family, because of the elder girl. If I had imagined—but indeed I had no idea that you forbade it altogether."

The Squire's brow was deeply dented, with not only displeasure but disquietude. Seeing her distress, he pulled himself together, and smiled.

"Tell me what passed."

Katherine did her best. She was in a mental condition to be easily upset, and her voice was not steady, as she related what little there was—in her estimation—worth relating. She was not gifted as a raconteur, and the tale sounded bare.

"Was that all?"

"Nearly all, uncle. Mrs. Morris seems an odd woman—not at all pleased to see me, I thought, so really I need not go again. Doris was a good deal taken with the poor delicate daughter—Winnie, they called her. Doris said afterwards that she meant to go and see her sometimes, and to take her books to read. It was a kind idea. And Mrs. Brutt—"

"Yes—"

"She talked a good deal, as she always does."

"About the farm people?" The Squire seldom showed so keen an interest in aught that might be described as verging on gossip.

"Yes. She seems to me to have found a mare's nest. I did not quite follow her line of thought—but it was about Mrs. Morris's past, and what she imagined to be the truth. She was sure there was some secret. It sounded rather absurd. But Mrs. Morris certainly is singular. The elder girl I did not like."

"I warned you. She will take liberties, if she is allowed."

"She did not try to take any. I found her rather subdued. It seemed 

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