Alethea went, and Lilias lingered by the fire. Mrs. Weston once asked her if she knew how late it was; but still she waited, until she was startled by the sound of the bell for evening service. As she went to church with Mrs. Weston and Emily she met Jane, who told her that her class had been unemployed all the afternoon. ‘I would have taken them,’ said she, ‘but that Robert does not like me to teach the great girls, and I do think Alethea might have heard them.’ ‘It is very provoking,’ said Lily, pettishly; ‘I thought I might depend—’ She turned and saw Miss Weston close to her. ‘Oh, Alethea!’ said she, ‘I thought you would have heard those girls.’ ‘I thought you were coming,’ said Alethea. ‘So I was, but I am sure the bell rang too early. I do wish you had taken them, Alethea.’ ‘I am sorry you are vexed,’ said Alethea, simply. ‘What makes you think I am vexed? I only thought you liked hearing my class.’ They were by this time at the church door, and as they entered Alethea blamed herself for feeling grieved, and Lily awoke to a sense of her unreasonableness. She longed to tell Alethea how sorry she felt, but she had no opportunity, and she resolved to go to Broomhill the next day to make her confession. In the night, however, snow began to fall, and the morning showed the February scene of thawing snow and pouring rain. Going out was impossible, both on that day and the next. Wednesday dawned fair and bright; but just after breakfast Lily received a little note, with the intelligence that Mr. Weston had arrived at Broomhill on Monday evening, and with his wife and daughters was to set off that very day to make a visit to some friends on the way to London. Had not the weather been so bad, Alethea said she should have come to take leave of her New Court friends on Tuesday, but she could now only send this note to tell them how sorry she was to go without seeing them, and to beg Emily to send back a piece of music which she had lent to her. The messenger was Faith Longley, who was to accompany them, and who now was going home to take leave of her mother, and would call again for the music in a quarter of an hour. Lily ran to ask her when they were to go. ‘At eleven,’ was the answer; and Lily telling her she need not call again, as she herself would bring the music, went to look for it. High and low did she seek, and so did Jane, but it was not to be found in any nook, likely or unlikely; and when at last Lily, in despair, gave up the attempt to find it, it was already a quarter to eleven. Emily sent many apologies and civil messages, and Lily set out at a rapid pace to walk to Broomhill by the road, for the thaw had rendered the fields impassable. Fast as she walked, she was too late. She had the mortification of seeing the carriage turn out at the gates, and take the Raynham road; she was not even seen, nor had she a wave of the hand, or a smile to comfort her.