“What is it?” he muttered faintly—­“My God spare me!—­she—­she is not dead?”

“No, no!” cried Cicely, smitten to the heart with self-reproach at her own unthinking impetuosity—­“No—­no—­no!  Oh what an utter idiot I am!  Oh, Mr. Walden, I didn’t think—­I didn’t know—­oh, dear Mr. Walden, I’m so sorry I have alarmed you—­do, do forgive me!—–­” And she began to cry bitterly.

He looked at her vaguely for a moment,—­anon his face relaxed, and his eyes softened.  Advancing to her, he took both her hands and pressed them.

“Poor little Cicely!” he said, kindly—­“So it is you, is it?  Poor dear little singer!—­you have had so much anxiety—­and I—­” He broke off and turned his head away.  Then, after a pause, he resumed—­“It’s all right, Cicely!  You—­you startled me just a little—­I scarcely knew you!  You look so worn out, dear child, and no wonder!  What can I do to cheer you?  Is she—­is she still going on well?”

Cicely raised her dark, tear-wet eyes to his in a kind of wistful wonder.  Then she suddenly stooped and kissed the hands that held her own.

“Homage to a brave man!” she said, impulsively—­“You are brave!—­ don’t contradict me, because I won’t stand it!” She detached her hands from his and tried to laugh.  “Is she going on well, you ask?  Yes,—­as well as she can.  But—­you know she will be a cripple—­ always?”

Walden bent his head sadly.

“I know!”

“And it’s all through those terrible ‘Five Sister’ beeches!” she went on—­“If Oliver Leach had been allowed to cut them down, Maryllia would never have gone out to save them that morning, or given the wretched man his dismissal.  And he wouldn’t have cursed her, or tried to murder her!”

Walden shuddered a little.

“Then it is quite as much my fault as anybody else’s, Cicely,”—­he said, wearily—­“For I had something to do with the saving of the old trees.  At any rate, I did not exercise my authority as I might have done to pacify the villagers, when their destruction was threatened.  I feel somehow that I my share of blame in the disaster.”

“Nonsense!” snapped out Cicely, sharply, almost angrily—­“Why should you take the sins of everyone in the parish on. your shoulders?  Broad as they are, you can draw the line somewhere surely!  You might as well blame poor old Josey Letherbarrow.  He was the one who persuaded Maryllia to save the Five Sisters,—­and if you were to tell him that all the trouble had come through him, he’d die!  Poor old dear!” She laughed a trifle hysterically.  “It’s nobody’s fault, I suppose.  It’s destiny.”

John sighed heavily.

“Of course,” went on Cicely desperately—­“Maryllia may live a long time,—­or she may not.  She thinks not.  And because she thinks not, she wants to see you.”

He started nervously.

“To see me?”

“Yes.  It’s perfectly natural, isn’t it?  Isn’t it your business to visit the sick,—­and—–­” He interrupted her by a quick gesture.