Mrs. Willett gave her a few minutes’ start, and then, in a state of extraordinary excitement, went upstairs and, with fingers trembling with haste, put on her bonnet and cape. “You’re not going out alone at this time o’ the morning, ma’am?” said the old servant, as she came down again. “Just as far as the corner, Martha,” said the old lady, craftily. “I’d better come with you,” said the other. “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Willett. “I’m quite strong this morning. Go on with your stoves.” She took up her stick and, opening the door, astonished Martha by her nimbleness. At the gate she looked right and left, and for the first time in her life felt that there were too many churches in Salthaven. For several reasons, the chief being that Cecilia’s father lay in the churchyard, she decided to try St. Peter’s first, and, having procured a cab at the end of the road, instructed the cabman to drive to within fifty yards of the building and wait for her. The church was open, and a peep through the swing-doors showed her a small group standing before the altar. With her hand on her side she hobbled up the stone steps to the gallery, and, helping herself along by the sides of the pews, entered the end one of them all and sank exhausted on the cushions. The service had just commenced, and the voice of the minister sounded with unusual loudness in the empty church. Mr. Truefitt and Miss Willett stood before him like culprits, Mr. Truefitt glancing round uneasily several times as the service proceeded. Twice the old lavender-coloured bonnet that was projecting over the side of the gallery drew back in alarm, and twice its owner held her breath and rated herself sternly for her venturesomeness. She did not look over again until she heard a little clatter of steps proceeding to the vestry, and then, with a hasty glance round, slipped out of the pew and made her way downstairs and out of the church. Her strength was nearly spent, but the cabman was on the watch, and, driving up to the entrance, climbed down and bundled her into the cab. The drive was all too short for her to compose herself as she would have liked, and she met the accusatory glance of Martha with but little of her old spirit. “I went a little too far,” she said, feebly, as the servant helped her to the door. “What did I tell you?” demanded the other, and placing her in her chair removed her bonnet and cape, and stood regarding her with sour disapproval. “I’m getting better,” said the old lady, stoutly. “I’m getting my breath back again. I—I think I’ll have a glass of wine.” “Yes, ’m,” said Martha, moving off. “The red-currant?” “Red-currant!” said Mrs. Willett, sharply. “Red-currant! Certainly not. The port.” Martha disappeared, marvelling, to return a minute or two later with the wine and a glass on a tray. Mrs. Willett filled her glass and, whispering a toast to herself, half emptied it. “Martha!” she said, looking round with a smile. “Ma’am!”