Here Colin came up, to say "we had better walk on to meet the carriage, rather than wait for it." He and Doctor Urquhart exchanged a few words, then he took his mother on one arm--good Colin, he never neglects his old mother--and offered me the other. "Let me take care of Miss Theodora," said Doctor Urquhart, rather decidedly. "Will you come?" I am sure he meant me to come. I hope it was not rude to Colin, but I could not help coming, I could not help taking his arm. It was such a long time since we had met. But I held my tongue, as I had been bidden: indeed, nothing came into my head to say. Doctor Urquhart made one only observation, and that not particularly striking:-- "What sort of shoes have you got on?" "Thick ones." "That is right. You ought not to trifle with your health." Why should one be afraid of speaking the truth right out, when a word would often save so much of misunderstanding, doubt, and pain? Why should one shrink from being the first to say that word, when there is no wrong in it, when in all one's heart there is not a feeling that one need be ashamed of before any good man or woman, or--I humbly hope--before God? I determined to speak out. "Doctor Urquhart, why have you never been to see us since the wedding? It has grieved papa." My candour must have surprised him; I felt him start. When he replied, it was in that peculiar nervous tone I know so well--which always seems to take away my nervousness, and makes me feel that for the moment I am the stronger of the two. "I am very sorry. I would not on any account grieve your papa." "Will you come, then, some day this week?" "Thank you, but I cannot promise." A possibility struck me. "Papa is rather peculiar. He vexes people, sometimes, when they are not thoroughly acquainted with him. Has he vexed you in any way?" "I assure you, no." After a little hesitation, determined to get at the truth, I asked:-- "Have I vexed you?" "You! What an idea!" It did seem, at this moment, preposterous, almost absurd. I could have laughed at it. I believe I did laugh. Oh, when one has been angry or grieved with a friend, and all of a sudden the cloud clears off--one hardly knows how or why, but it certainly is gone, perhaps never existed--save in imagination--what an infinite relief it is! How cheerful one feels, and yet humbled; ashamed, yet inexpressibly content. So glad, so satisfied to have only one's self to blame. I asked Doctor Urquhart what he had been doing all this while? that I understood he had been a good deal engaged; was it about the barrack business, and his memorial? "Partly," he said; expressing some surprise at my remembering it.