It seemed to the girl, at the moment, as if she fairly hated Winton.  As though Hilary and she did not already know every stick and stone in it, had not long ago exhausted all its possibilities!

New people might think it “quaint” and “pretty” but they had not lived here all their lives.  And, besides, she had expressly told Uncle Paul that the doctor had said that Hilary needed a change.

She was still brooding over the downfall of her hopes, when her mother called to her from the garden.  Pauline went down, feeling that it mattered very little what her father’s decision had been—­it could make so little difference to them, either way.

Mrs. Shaw was on the bench under the old elm, that stood midway between parsonage and church.  She had been rereading Uncle Paul’s letter, and to Pauline’s wonder, there was something like a smile of amusement in her eyes.

“Well, mother?” the girl asked.

“Well, dear, your father and I have talked the matter over, and we have decided to allow you to accept your uncle’s offer.”

“But that—­hateful condition!  How is Hilary to get a chance—­here in Winton?”

“Who was it that I heard saying, only this morning, Pauline, that even if Uncle Paul didn’t agree, she really believed we might manage to have a very pleasant summer here at home?”

“I know—­but still, now that we know definitely—­”

“We can go to work definitely to do even better.”

“But how, mother!”

“That is what we must think over.  Suppose you put your wits to work right now.  I must go down to Jane’s for a few moments.  After all, Pauline, those promised twenty-fives can be used very pleasantly—­even in Winton.”

“But it will still be Winton.”

“Winton may develop some unexplored corners, some new outlooks.”

Pauline looked rather doubtful; then, catching sight of a small dejected-looking little figure in the swing, under the big cherry-tree at the foot of the lawn, she asked, “I suppose I may tell Patience now, mother?  She really has been very good all this time of waiting.”

“She certainly has.  Only, not too many details, Pauline.  Patience is of such a confiding disposition.”

“Patience,” Pauline called, “suppose we go see if there aren’t some strawberries ripe?”

Patience ran off for a basket.  Strawberries!  As if she didn’t know they were only a pretext.  Grown people were assuredly very queer—­but sometimes, it was necessary to humor, their little whims and ways.

“I don’t believe they are ripe yet,” she said, skipping along beside her sister.  “O Paul, is it—­nice?”

“Mother thinks so!”

“Don’t you?”

“Maybe I will—­after a while.  Hilary isn’t to go away.”

“Is that what you wrote and asked Uncle Paul?  And didn’t you ask for us all to go?”

“Certainly not—­we’re not sick,” said Pauline, laughing.