Miss Merivale’s heart ached as she looked at him, but she was far from understanding the full bitterness of the blow she had inflicted on him. Tom felt as if he had suddenly grown old. He left his aunt presently and went out into the open air. He no longer felt inclined to go and meet the pony carriage, but he went through the wood to the furzy common beyond. From there he could see the high road stretching like a white ribbon across the downs. No pony carriage was in sight, but a traction engine was lumbering heavily upwards, with a man walking before it carrying a red flag. Tom was glad to see it disappear over the dip of the hill. The lane from Bingley woods entered the high road lower down the hill. There was no danger of Bob’s nerves being shaken by the sight of the fiery-throated monster. The road lay white and silent in the sunshine now. Tom sat down on a turf hillock, fixing his eyes drearily upon it. He felt intensely miserable. CHAPTER XI. POLLY SMITH. The expedition to Bingley woods was not a success. Pauline was in one of her worst tempers, and treated Rose so rudely that the poor girl was more ashamed of her chosen friend than angry with her. To Rhoda, Pauline was all that was sweet and flattering. She had promised Miss Merivale to say nothing to her; but she was eager to ingratiate herself with the girl whom she now knew to be an heiress, and to make her forget how she had treated her while she was Clare’s assistant. Rhoda was strongly irritated by her advances. Pauline’s snubs had never wounded her very deeply. Rhoda only valued the good opinion of those whom she respected. But Pauline’s eagerness to make friends turned her indifference to something like violent dislike. She found it hardly possible to speak civilly to her. She went off at last into the depths of the wood, leaving Rose and Pauline together. Her irritation soon passed away when she was alone. The basket she had brought to fill with primroses remained empty in her hands. She wandered on, her eyes drinking in the beauty round her. Only the lower boughs of the trees were in leaf as yet, and the wood was full of golden light. Primroses were everywhere, and in the more open spaces celandines starred the ground with deeper yellow. In a month the glades between the trees would be carpeted by bluebells. But there were no bluebells yet. Spring was still in its infancy. The great oaks that skirted the wood stretched bare wintry boughs over the flowers beneath them. It was a time of hope, of delicate, exquisite promise; and Rhoda’s lips curved with a happy, dreamy smile, as she listened to the story the woods whispered to her that April day.