“Then,” said the Vicar, “I wash my hands of you.”

But he said it to an empty room.  Essy had left him.

* * * * *

In the outer room the three sisters sat silent and motionless.  Their faces were turned toward the closed door of the study.  They were listening to the sounds that went on behind it.  The burden of Essy hung heavy over them.

The study door opened and shut.  Then the kitchen door.

“Poor Essy,” said Gwenda.

“Poor Essy,” said Alice.  She was sorry for Essy now.  She could afford to be sorry for her.

Mary said nothing, and from her silence you could not tell what she was thinking.

The long day dragged on to prayer time.

The burden of Essy hung heavy over the whole house.

* * * * *

That night, at a quarter to ten, fifteen minutes before prayer time, Gwenda came to her father in his study.

“Papa,” she said, “is it true that you’ve sacked Essy at three days’ notice?”

“I have dismissed Essy,” said the Vicar, “for a sufficient reason.”

“There’s no reason to turn her out before Christmas.”

“There is,” said the Vicar, “a very grave reason.  We needn’t go into it.”

He knew that his daughter knew his reason.  But he ignored her knowledge as he ignored all things that were unpleasant to him.

“We must go into it,” said Gwenda.  “It’s a sin to turn her out at three days’ notice.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gwenda, and why I’m doing it.”

“So do I. We all do.  None of us want her to go—­yet.  You could easily have kept her another two months.  She’d have given notice herself.”

“I am not going to discuss it with you.”

The Vicar put his head under the roll top of his desk and pretended to be looking for papers.  Gwenda seated herself familiarly on the arm of the chair he had left.

“You’ll have to, I’m afraid,” she said.  “Please take your head out of the desk, Papa.  There’s no use behaving like an ostrich.  I can see you all the time.  The trouble is, you know, that you won’t think.  And you must think.  How’s Essy going to do without those two months’ wages she might have had?  She’ll want every shilling she can lay her hands on for the baby.”

“She should have thought of that before.”

The Vicar was answering himself.  He did not acknowledge his daughter’s right to discuss Essy.

“She’ll think of it presently,” said Gwenda in her unblushing calm.  “Look here, Papa, while you’re trying how you can make this awful thing more awful for her, what do you think poor Essy’s bothering about?  She’s not bothering about her sin, nor about her baby.  She’s bothering about how she’s landed us.”

The Vicar closed his eyes.  His patience was exhausted.  So was his wisdom.

“I am not arguing with you, Gwenda.”