Mary let her run on. She moved silently along the grassy path, her pretty head bent, her hands clasped behind her. And presently her aunt resumed: "And the strange thing is, my dear, saving your presence--that your beloved mother is quite lax in some directions, while she is so strict in others. I never can make her pay the smallest attention to the things I tell her about Philip Meryon, for instance, that Hugh tells me. 'Poor fellow!' she always calls him, as though his abominable ways were like the measles--something you couldn't help. And as for that wild minx Hester!--she has positively taken a fancy to her. It reminds me of what an old priest said to me once in Rome--'Sins, madame!--the only sins that matter are those of the intellect!' There!--send me off--before I say any more _inconvenances_!" Mary waved farewell to her vivacious aunt, and walked slowly back to the cottage. She was conscious of inner smart and pain; conscious also for the first time of a critical mind toward the mother whose will had been the law of her life. It was not that she claimed anything for herself; but she claimed justice for a man misread. "If they could only know each other!"--she found herself saying at last aloud--with an impetuous energy; and then, with a swift return upon herself--"Mother, _darling_!--mother, who has no one in the world--but me!" As the words escaped her, she came in sight of the cottage, and saw that her mother was sitting in her usual place beside the water. Catharine's hands were resting on a newspaper they had evidently just put down, and she was gazing absently across the lights and shadows, the limpid blues and browns of the tree-locked pool before her. Mary came to sit on the grass beside her. "Have you been reading, dearest?" But as she spoke she saw, with discomfort, that the newspaper on her mother's knee was the _Church Guardian_, in which a lively correspondence on the subject of Meynell and the Modernist Movement generally was at the moment proceeding. "Yes, I have been reading," said Catharine slowly--"and I have been very sad." "Then I wish you wouldn't read!" cried Mary, kissing her hand. "I should like to burn all the newspapers!" "What good would that do?" said Catharine, trying to smile. "I have been reading Bishop Craye's letter to the _Guardian_. Poor Bishop!--what a cruel, cruel position!" The words were spoken with a subdued but passionate energy, and when Mrs. Elsmere perceived that Mary made no reply, her hand slipped out of her daughter's. There was silence for a little, broken by Catharine, speaking with the same quiet vehemence: "I cannot understand how you, Mary, or any one else can defend what this man--Mr. Meynell--is doing. If he cannot agree with the Church, let him leave it. But to stay in it--giving this scandal--and this offence--" Her voice failed her. Mary collected her thoughts as best she could. At last she said, with difficulty: