He had done very wrongly; everybody said that. But people blamed me too; and I knew it, for Mrs. Hammond told me so. And if they had known all, they would have blamed me more. Wasn't it hard enough that I couldn't return Rupert's honest love? What call had I to go and say harsh things to him as well, when his heart was sore already? Ah, folks called me humble and gentle, because I had a soft manner; but they didn't know me in those days. No, not even my mother knew me fully, and least of all did I know myself. Another lad came as ticket-collector in Rupert's place; at first, only to fill up the gap for a while, since father and everybody hoped Rupert wouldn't be gone long. But time went on, and he did not return, so at last the post was lost to him. I could hardly bear to meet Mrs. Bowman or Mabel, they looked so reproachful at me; yet they couldn't really tell what had passed. They only guessed that he had been jealous of Mr. Russell, and vexed not to be liked most. It came out that Mrs. Hammond had spread all over the village about my saying that I liked Mr. Russell best; and the story was told in a way that made a great deal more of my words than the reality. That's common enough. When the tale reached mother's ears, it fairly upset her. She did so hate gossip. She had not said a sharp word to me before, since Mr. Russell went; but she did then. She wanted to know all about the truth of the matter; so I told her how Rupert had bothered, and how I had answered him, saying more than I meant, and how Mrs. Hammond had happened to hear, and how she had promised not to repeat, and hadn't kept her word. "Yes, that is the way," mother said, seeming terribly vexed. "If nobody would ever say what oughtn't to be overheard, there would be a lot less harm done." And then she repeated— "Mrs. Hammond's word! And you expected anything from her promise! That's the sort of woman you can be fond of, is it?" I was too down-hearted to make much of an answer, or to defend myself, if any defending was needed. After all, mother was a deal more angry for me than with me. She couldn't stand the thought of her Kitty's name being bandied about in such a way among the villagers. Mary Russell was up and dressed for almost the first time, and able to sit in the garden. She heard mother speaking, and presently she beckoned to me to come and sit by her with my work, while mother was busy indoors. I didn't mind going, though everything felt so flat and dull those days, with Mr. Russell gone, that I could not care much about anything. However, I took up my work, and dragged myself across to where Mary sat, smiling at the flowers. "Come, Kitty," says she; and when I was by her, she asked— "Has something gone wrong?" "It doesn't matter," I said, getting red, for I did not want to explain. "I think it does," said she, "if it makes Kitty look so unhappy. Come, put down the work, and tell me all about it." "I can't!" I said, beginning to sew fast.