She turned towards the window as she spoke, and the sun shone full on her face. It looked tired and grey, and very, very old; and the thin hands crossed on her lap, how shrivelled they were!--they trembled all the time as though they could not keep still. Mildred walked out into the garden, a pang of compunction at her heart. Dreadful to be so old!--not to be able to see without spectacles; to hear,--unless people spoke at the pitch of their voices; to walk,--unless supported by a stick; to feel cold even on the hottest day; to feel tired the first thing in the morning;--how dreadful! Lady Sarah had looked sad too--not merely cross, as usual, but really and truly sad and lonely. Suppose she had seriously meant to be kind--to show that she regretted her interference in the past? Mildred's face clouded over as this thought passed through her mind, but before she crossed the lawn to join her friends her lips stiffened into the old, obstinate line. "I don't care. She had no right to send in her scraps of finery, without even asking my permission. And after saying that Mother didn't provide for me properly, too! No, I am not a bit sorry; I would do the same thing over again!" CHAPTER TEN. AN UNEXPECTED DEPARTURE. The day before the eventful picnic the family were seated round the breakfast-table, when the Dean looked up from a letter which he had just been reading, and said mildly, and as if he were making the most natural request in the world: "Evelyn, will you get ready to go up to town by the five o'clock train this afternoon? The Archbishop has appointed our interview for three o'clock to-morrow. You had better pack for two or three nights." Mrs Faucit gave an irrepressible start of consternation. Was ever anything so unfortunate! The interview with the Archbishop had been talked of for months past; half a dozen letters had been exchanged on the subject within the last fortnight; the question which was to be discussed was of pressing importance. She realised at once that the appointment must be kept, but her heart sank as she looked at the three young faces beside her--aghast, and speechless with horror. "Oh! is it really to-morrow?" she cried. "Are you quite sure, dear? Look again! you so often make mistakes in the date. Does he say Wednesday the sixteenth, or Wednesday the twenty-third?" The Dean peered at his letter once more. "He says: _I shall be able to meet you on Wednesday next, sixteenth instant_. It is certainly to-morrow. Why, Evelyn; is there any reason why--er--?" "It is the day of Mrs Newland's picnic. I have accepted her invitation--"