It was exactly what Avery had expected of him.  She wrote a soothing letter to Mrs. Lorimer, promising to keep her informed of Jeanie’s condition, promising to lavish every care upon the child, and begging her to persuade Mr. Lorimer to remit the task which had become so heavy a burden.

The reply to this did not come at once, and Avery had repeated the request twice very urgently and was contemplating addressing a protest to the Reverend Stephen in person when another agitated epistle arrived from Mrs. Lorimer.  Her husband had decided to run down to them for a night and judge of Jeanie’s state for himself.

Avery received the news with dismay which, however, she was careful to conceal.  Jeanie heard of the impending visit with as much perturbation as her tranquil nature would allow, and during the day that intervened before his arrival gave herself more sedulously than ever to her task.  She had an unhappy premonition that he would desire to examine her upon what she had read, and she was guiltily aware that her memory had not retained very much of it.

So for the whole of one day she strove to study, till she was so completely tired out that Avery actually took the book from her at last and declared that she should not worry herself any more about it.  Jeanie yielded submissively, but a wakeful night followed, and in the morning she looked so wan that Avery wanted to keep her in bed.

On this point, however, Jeanie was less docile than usual.  “He will think I am shamming,” she protested.  “He never likes us to lie in bed unless we are really ill.”

So, since she was evidently anxious to get up, Avery permitted it, though she marked her obvious languor with a sinking heart.

The Vicar arrived at about noon, and Avery saw at a glance that he was in no kindly mood.

“Dear me, what is all this fuss?” he said to Jeanie.  “You look to me considerably rosier than I have seen you for a long time.”

Jeanie was indeed flushed with nervous excitement, and Avery thought she had never seen her eyes so unnaturally bright.  She endured her father’s hand under her chin with evident discomfort, and the Vicar’s face was somewhat severe when he finally released her.

“I am afraid you are getting a little fanciful, my child,” he said gravely.  “I know that our kind friend, Lady Evesham—­” his eyes twinkled ironically and seemed to slip inwards—­“has always been inclined to indulge your whims.  Now how do you occupy your time?”

“I read,” faltered Jeanie.

“And sew, I presume,” said the Vicar, who prided himself upon bringing up his daughter to be useful.

“A little,” said Jeanie.

He opened his eyes upon her again with that suggestion of severity in his regard which Jeanie so plainly dreaded.  “But you have done none since you have been here?  Jeanie, my child, I detect in you the seeds of idleness.  If your time were more fully occupied, you would find your general health would considerably improve.  Now, do you rise early and go for a bathe before breakfast?”