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And we moved. Poor Aunt!

Mr. Shelmardine came bravely on. I felt my heart beating to my very finger tips. He halted by the fragment of an old stranded boat. Aunt had turned her back on him.

I ventured on a look. He lifted his hat with a twinkle in his eye. Just then Aunt said, icily: “We will go home, Marguerite. That creature evidently intends to persist in his intrusion.”

Home we came accordingly.

This morning he signalled across: “Letter from Connie. Message for you. I mean to deliver it personally. Do you ever go to church?”

Now, I do go regularly to church at home. But Aunt Martha and Mrs. Saxby are both such rigid church people that they would not darken the doors of the Methodist church at Plover Sands for any consideration. Needless to say, I am not allowed to go either. But it was impossible to make this long explanation, so I merely replied: “Not here.”

“Will you not go tomorrow morning?”

“Aunt will not let me.”

“Coax her.”

“Coaxing never has any effect on her.”

“Would she relent if Mrs. Allardyce were to call for you?”

Now, I have been cautiously sounding Aunt about Mrs. Allardyce, and I have discovered that she disapproves of her. So I said: “It would be useless. I will ask Aunt if I may go, but I feel almost sure that she will not consent.”

This evening, when Aunt was in an unusually genial mood, I plucked up heart of grace and asked her.

“Marguerite,” she said impressively, “you know that I do not attend church here.”

“But, Aunt,” I persisted, quakingly, “couldn’t I go alone? It is not very far–and I will be very careful.”

Aunt merely gave me a look that said about forty distinct and separate things, and I was turning away in despair when Mrs. Saxby–bless her heart–said: “I really think it would be no harm to let the child go.”

As Aunt attaches great importance to Mrs. Saxby’s opinion, she looked at me relentingly and said: “Well, I will think it over and let you know in the morning, Marguerite.”

Now, everything depends on the sort of humour Aunt is in in the morning.

July Twentieth.

This morning was perfect, and after breakfast Aunt said, condescendingly: “I think you may attend church if you wish, Marguerite. Remember that I expect you to conduct yourself with becoming prudence and modesty.”

I flew upstairs and pulled my prettiest dress out of my trunk. It is a delicate, shimmering grey stuff with pearly tints about it. Every time I get anything new, Aunt Martha and I have a battle royal over it. I verily believe that Aunt would like me to dress in the fashions in vogue in her youth. There is always a certain flavour of old-fashionedness about my gowns and hats. Connie used to say that it was delicious and gave me a piquant uniqueness–a certain unlikeness to other people that possessed a positive charm. That is only Connie’s view of it, however.

But I had had my own way about this dress and it is really very becoming. I wore a little silvery-grey chip hat, trimmed with pale pink flowers, and I pinned at my belt the sweetest cluster of old-fashioned blush rosebuds from the garden. Then I borrowed a hymn book from Mrs. Blake and ran down to undergo Aunt Martha’s scrutiny.

“Dear me, child,” she said discontentedly, “you have gotten yourself up very frivolously, it seems to me.”

“Why, Aunty,” I protested, “I’m all in grey–every bit.”

Aunt Martha sniffed. You don’t know how much Aunt can express in a sniff. But I tripped to church like a bird.

The first person I saw there was Mr. Shelmardine. He was sitting right across from me and a smile glimmered in his eyes. I did not look at him again. Through the service I was subdued enough to have satisfied even Aunt Martha.

When church came out, he waited for me at the entrance to his pew. I pretended not to see him until he said “Good morning,” in a voice vibrating and deep, which sounded as though it might become infinitely tender if its owner chose. When we went down the steps he took my hymnal, and we walked up the long, bowery country road.