Rhoda’s first knock was not answered; but when she tapped softly again, she heard Miss Merivale’s voice telling her to come in. Miss Merivale was lying on the bed, with her face turned to the wall. She reached out her hand for Rhoda’s, and clasped it tenderly, but did not turn round. “My head is very bad, darling. Tell Rose I won’t have any tea. I want to keep quite quiet.” Rhoda did not tell her that Rose and Pauline had not returned. She was afraid she might be alarmed. The deadly pallor of her face quite frightened her. She spoke to Tom when she went downstairs. “Miss Merivale looks very ill,” she said, “and she won’t let me do anything for her.” Tom was sitting at the table before the hall window, busy making flies for his trout fishing. He was so intent on his work that he did not look up. “She gets bad headaches. I should not be anxious. She always likes to be left alone.” Rhoda did not answer this. She went into the dining-room, where tea was laid ready, and sat down in the broad window-seat with some needlework. If Tom had come in then, she would have been very cold to him. Her pride was up in arms. But he did not come near her; and for a miserable half hour Rhoda sat there alone, feeling as if all life’s music had suddenly stopped, and winter had taken the place of spring. Wilmot came in at last to urge her to have some tea. “Miss Rosie may be stopping to tea at the Rectory. It isn’t any good for you and Mr. Tom to wait any longer.” Rhoda looked at the clock in some alarm. She had not been conscious of the lapse of time. “I don’t think Miss Rosie meant to stop anywhere, Wilmot. But they ought to be home. I hope nothing has happened.” At that moment Tom entered the room. “It is getting very late,” he said to Rhoda. “How long did Jones mean to take to put that shoe right? Not very long, surely.” “Miss Merivale thought they would be at home by six o’clock,” Rhoda answered. “And it is seven now,” Tom said, glancing at the clock. “It will be dark in half an hour. They were coming by the high road all the way, didn’t you say?” “Yes; Miss Smythe did not want to go up the lane. But the high road is not very much longer, is it, Mr. Merivale?” “About two miles longer. But it is a better road. They ought to be home by this time.” Rhoda was standing by the window, and he came to her side and looked out. He carefully avoided glancing at her, yet he knew that her face was very proud and cold. “I think I will go down the road to meet them,” he said. His voice shook a little. It was very hard--it was almost harder than he could bear--to let her go on misunderstanding him. Yet how could he explain? “I wish they would come home,” Rhoda answered. “Do go and meet them, Mr. Merivale. Miss Smythe wanted to drive, and I do not trust her driving.”