“Indeed, I did not send her anything but a rebuke.  I told her that it would be a very wrong thing in me to contribute to the support of such an evil spirit of unthankfulness as she indulged in.  When she came to see her conduct in its true light, and confessed that she had behaved very abominably, I would see what I could do for her.”

“And meantime she was served out, wasn’t she?  With her sick boy at home, and nothing to give him?” said Miss Gladwyn.

“She made her own bed, and had to lie on it.”

“Don’t you think a little kindness might have had more effect in bringing her to see that she was wrong.”

“Grannie doesn’t believe in kindness, except to me—­dear old grannie!  She spoils me.  I’m sure I shall be ungrateful some day; and then she’ll begin to read me long lectures, and prick me with all manner of headless pins.  But I won’t stand it, I can tell you, grannie!  I’m too much spoiled for that.”

Mrs Oldcastle was silent—­why, I could not tell, except it was that she knew she had no chance of quieting the girl in any other way.

I may mention here, lest I should have no opportunity afterwards, that I inquired of dame Hope as to her version of the story, and found that there had been a great misunderstanding, as I had suspected.  She was really in no want at the time, and did not feel that it would be quite honourable to take the money when she did not need it—­(some poor people are capable of such reasoning)—­and so had refused it, not without a feeling at the same time that it was more pleasant to refuse than to accept from such a giver; some stray sparkle of which feeling, discovered by the keen eye of Miss Gladwyn, may have given that appearance of disdain to her courtesy to which the girl alluded.  When, however, her boy in service was brought home ill, she had sent to ask for what she now required, on the very ground that it had been offered to her before.  The misunderstanding had arisen from the total incapacity of Mrs Oldcastle to enter sympathetically into the feelings of one as superior to herself in character as she was inferior in worldly condition.

But to return to Oldcastle Hall.

I wished to change the subject, knowing that blind defence is of no use.  One must have definite points for defence, if one has not a thorough understanding of the character in question; and I had neither.

“This is a beautiful old house,” I said.  “There must be strange places about it.”

Mrs Oldcastle had not time to reply, or at least did not reply, before Miss Gladwyn said—­

“Oh, Mr Walton, have you looked out of the window yet?  You don’t know what a lovely place this is, if you haven’t.”

And as she spoke she emerged from a recess in the room, a kind of dark alcove, where she had been amusing herself with what I took to be some sort of puzzle, but which I found afterwards to be the bit and curb-chain of her pony’s bridle which she was polishing up to her own bright mind, because the stable-boy had not pleased her in the matter, and she wanted both to get them brilliant and to shame the lad for the future.  I followed her to the window, where I was indeed as much surprised and pleased as she could have wished.