At seven o’clock in the evening, there was not a formidable congregation.  Miss Meadows, who had been informed as late as could save offence, had treated it as a freak of Mrs. Kendal, resented the injunction of secrecy, and would neither be present herself, nor let her mother come out.  Genevieve, three old men, and a child or two, were the whole number present.  The daily service at Bayford was an offering made in faith by the vicar, for as yet there was very little attendance.  ‘But,’ said Mr. Dusautoy, ’it is the worship of God, not an entertainment to please man—­it is all nonsense to talk of its answering or not answering.’

Mr. Kendal was in a state of far greater suffering from shame than his daughter, as indeed he deserved, but he endured it with a gallant, almost touching resignation.  He was the only witness of her baptism, and it seemed like a confession, when he had to reply to the questions, by whom, and with what words this child had been baptized, when she stood beside him overtopping her little godmother.  She stood with tightly-locked hands, and ebbing colour, which came back in a flood when Mr. Dusautoy took her by the hand, and said, ’We receive this child into the congregation,’ and when he traced the cross on her brow, she stood tremblingly, her lips squeezed close together, and after she returned to her place no one saw her face.

Albinia, with her brother and Lucy, were at home by the short cut before the carriage could return.  She met Sophy at the hall-door, kissed her, and said, ’Now, my dear, you had better lie down, and be quite quiet;’ then followed Winifred into the drawing-room, and took her shawl and bonnet from her, lingering for a happy twilight conversation.  Lucy came down, and went to water her flowers, and by-and-by tea was brought, the gentlemen came in from their walk, and Mr. Kendal asked whether Sophy was tired.  Albinia went up to see.  She found her on her couch in the morning room, and told her that tea was ready.  There was something not promising in the voice that replied; and she said,

‘No, don’t move, my dear, I will bring it to you; you are tired.’

‘No—­I’ll go down, thank you.’  It was the gruff voice!

’Indeed you had much better not, my dear.  It is only an hour to bed-time, and you would only tire yourself for nothing.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘You are tired, Sophy,’ said her father.  ’You had better lie down while you have your tea.’

‘No, thank you,’ growled Sophy, as though hurt by being told to lie down before company.

Her father put a sofa-cushion behind her, but though she mumbled some acknowledgment, it was so surly, that Mrs. Ferrars looked up in surprise, and she would not lean back till fatigue gained the ascendancy.  Mr. Kendal asking her, got little in reply but such a grunt, that Mrs. Ferrars longed to shake her, but her father fetched a footstool, and put it under her feet, and grew a little abstracted in his talk, as if watching her, and his eye had something of the old habitual melancholy.