The Rector and The Doctor’s Family

to defy her reverend lover, if his eyes had declined upon lower attractions than her own. She looked very straight before her with unpitying precision down the road, on which St. Roque’s Church and Cottage were becoming already visible. The whole party were walking briskly over a path hard with frost, which made their footsteps ring. The air was still with a winterly touch, benumbed with cold, yet every sound rang sharply through that clear cloudless atmosphere, reddened without being warmed by the sun as it approached the west. It was Christmas again, and they were wending their way towards St. Roque’s to assist at the holiday decorations, for which cartloads of laurel and holly had been already deposited within the church. Lucy Wodehouse was chief directress of these important operations. Her sister had accompanied her, partly to admire Lucy’s work, and partly to call at the cottage and see how Nettie was going on. Mr. Wodehouse himself had come merely for the pride and pleasure of seeing how much they were indebted to his little girl; and the attendance of the curate was most easily explainable. It was, indeed, astonishing how many extremely necessary and natural “calls of duty” should bring Mr. Wentworth’s path parallel to that of the Wodehouses. This is why they were all proceeding together on this particular afternoon in the week before Christmas towards St. Roque’s.

In the church, when the party arrived, a little group of workers were busy. The chancel arch was already bristling with glossy holly-leaves. At a little distance from the active group occupied with this pleasant work, and full of chatter and consultation, as was natural, stood one little figure pointing out to two children the wonders of that decorative art. Every one of the newcomers, except Mr. Wodehouse, recognised Nettie before she was aware of their presence. She stood with her bonnet fallen a little back, as it generally was, either by encounter of the wind, or by the quantity and luxuriance of her beautiful hair, looking upwards to the point where she had directed the children’s eyes. She looked a little forlorn and solitary, as was natural, all by herself, so near that group of busy girls in the chancel⁠—so little separated from them by age, so entirely divided by circumstances. If a certain softening of half-tender pity shone in the curate’s eye, could Lucy Wodehouse blame him? But the fact was, Lucy swept past the little Australian with a very brief salutation, and burst into sudden criticism of the work that had been done in her absence, which startled her collaborateurs, while Mr. Wentworth followed her into the chancel with a meekness quite unusual to that young priest. Nettie noted both circumstances with a little surprise; but, not connecting them in the most distant degree with herself, turned round with a little twitch of Freddy’s arm to go away, and in doing so almost walked into the arms of her older and more faithful friend. Miss Wodehouse kissed her quite suddenly, touching with her soft old cheek that rounder, fairer, youthful face, which turned, half wondering, half pleased, with the look of a child, to receive her caress. Nettie was as unconscious that Miss Wodehouse’s unusual warmth was meant to make up for Lucy’s careless greeting, as that Lucy had passed her with a positive flutter of resentment and indignation, and that she had been the subject of the conversation and thoughts of all the party. Miss Wodehouse turned with her, taking Freddy’s other hand⁠—a proceeding to which that hero rather demurred. They went out together to the frosty road, where the bare willow-branches rustled between the church and the cottage. When they reached the porch of St. Roque’s, Nettie instinctively held her breath, and stood still for a moment. Along the footpath in front of them a big figure was passing, and beyond that bearded shadow the doctor’s drag flew past with all the separate tones of the horse’s feet, the wheels, the jingle of the harness, ringing clear through the sharp unsoftened medium of that frosty atmosphere. The doctor himself had all his attention concentrated upon the windows of the cottage, in which the sun was blazing red. He did not see Nettie in the church porch. He was looking for her too intently in the crimsoned windows, to which he turned his head back as he dashed on. Unawares Nettie clasped the fingers of her little companion tighter in her hand as she watched that unexpected homage. The drag was out of sight in another moment; and in a few seconds more the bell of the cottage pealed audibly, and the door was heard to open, admitting the Bushman, who had come upon one of his frequent visits. That last sound disturbed Nettie’s composure, and at the same time brought her back to herself.

“I cannot ask you to go in, for Mr. Chatham is there, and Susan of course talking to him,” said Nettie, with a quiet breath of restrained impatience, “but I should like to talk to you, please. Let me take the children home, and then I will walk up with you. Mrs. Smith is very kind; she will take off their things for them: they behave better now, when I am out for a few minutes⁠—though, to be sure, I never am out much to try them. Come, children; be good, and do not make a great noise till I come back.”

“What do you want to talk to her for?” asked the little girl, gazing coldly in Miss Wodehouse’s face.

“When Nettie went out to tea, we made as much noise as we liked,” said Freddy, “but there was papa there. Now there’s only mamma, and she’s so cross. I hate Chatham⁠—mamma is always crossest when Chatham’s there. What do you want to talk to people for, Nettie? Come in, and say there’s to be toast, and let us have tea.”

“We never have any tea till Nettie comes back,” added his sister, looking full once more into