“Lady Anstruthers,” she said, “Lady Anstruthers, it—­it is too much.  Sir Nigel——­”

“Too much!” exclaimed Rosalie.  “They have lost everything, you know; their hayricks and cattle as well as their house; I guess it won’t be half enough.”

Mrs. Brent dragged her into the vicar’s study and talked to her.  She tried to explain that in English villages such things were not done in a manner so casual, as if they were the mere result of unconsidered feeling, as if they were quite natural things, such as any human person might do.  When Rosalie cried:  “But why not—­why not?  They ought to be.”  Mrs. Brent could not seem to make herself quite clear.  Rosalie only gathered in a bewildered way that there ought to be more ceremony, more deliberation, more holding off, before a person of rank indulged in such munificence.  The recipient ought to be made to feel it more, to understand fully what a great thing was being done.

“They will think you will do anything for them.”

“So I will,” said young Lady Anstruthers, “if I have the money when they are in such awful trouble.  Suppose we lost everything in the world and there were people who could easily help us and wouldn’t?”

“You and Sir Nigel—­that is quite different,” said Mrs. Brent.  “I am afraid that if you do not discuss the matter and ask advice from your husband and mother-in-law they will be very much offended.”

“If I were doing it with their money they would have the right to be,” replied Rosalie, with entire ingenuousness.  “I wouldn’t presume to do such a thing as that.  That wouldn’t be right, of course.”

“They will be angry with me,” said the vicaress awkwardly.  This queer, silly girl, who seemed to see nothing in the right light, frequently made her feel awkward.  Mrs. Brent told her husband that she appeared to have no sense of dignity or proper appreciation of her position.

The wife of the farmer, John Wilson, carried away the cheque, quite stunned.  She was breathless with amazement and turned rather faint with excitement, bewilderment and her sense of relief.  She had to sit down in the vicarage kitchen for a few minutes and drink a glass of the thin vicarage beer.

Rosalie promised that she would discuss the matter and ask advice when she returned to the Court.  Just as she left the house Mrs. Brent suddenly remembered something she had forgotten.

“The Wilson trouble completely drove it out of my mind,” she said.  “It was a stupid mistake of the postboy’s.  He left a letter of yours among mine when he came this morning.  It was most careless.  I shall speak to his father about it.  It might have been important that you should receive it early.”

When she saw the letter Rosalie uttered an exclamation.  It was addressed in her father’s handwriting.

“Oh!” she cried.  “It’s from father!  And the postmark is Havre.  What does it mean?”

She was so excited that she almost forgot to express her thanks.  Her heart leaped up in her throat.  Could they have come over from America—­could they?  Why was it written from Havre?  Could they be near her?