Lady Susan, on Helen’s arrival, knew only vaguely that something uncomfortable had happened at the vicarage; but Helen, the first evening she was there, had confided to her, rather as one may confide on cold nights to one’s pillow or to bedclothes tucked round the neck, the history of the last few days. But she neither knew nor would have guessed it possible that the news had kept Aunt Susan awake half the night, and that while she herself was up the river with Martin her aunt had gone about her household businesses and taken her walk with her husband in such a tremor of excitement that he had to hurry after her, instead of hanging on his step to wait for her. In all these tranquil years at Cambridge she had never been brought into contact with a thing that moved her like this. The gentle ministrations in which her years were passed had not touched her emotions, which, had not her yearnings for a child kept them alive, would probably long ago have fossilised. But those yearnings had nourished and rendered mature their sweet, delicate sensitiveness, and now when they were aroused, though even in this second-hand manner, they responded instantly, gently vibrating, not with a crackle of dry autumn leaves, but like foliage of aspen in the breath of spring. Helen got back to this house of quiet towards five in the afternoon, and found her aunt and Dr. Arne at tea on the lawn behind the house. The latter, however, soon went indoors to enjoy--literally enjoy--his couple of hours’ work before dinner, after forewarning them as to possible dampness on the grass after sunset. “And have you enjoyed yourself, dear?” asked Aunt Susan, pleasantly; “and was the lunch I gave you really sufficient? Dear Martin has always such a beautiful appetite. It is a pleasure to see him eat his dinner.” “Yes, dear aunt, we had heaps. And it was all so good, and so beautifully done up. Exactly like you.” Aunt Susan, who always looked like a kind, little, animated Dresden shepherdess, flushed a little. “And so you had a nice day?” she said. “And no upsets? Martin is so reckless on water. Dear Helen, is it quite wise to take off your hat? It may turn suddenly chilly.” Helen laughed, and threw it on the grass. “No; no upsets, and quite wise, Aunt Susan. But a nice day? There was everything to make it nice externally; but one’s nice days are made inside one, I think. And just now my machine for making nice days creaks and groans; it is out of order.” Aunt Susan, though far too shy to take the initiative, was longing for the least thing that could be considered an introduction of this topic. “Do you know, dear, I lay awake half the night thinking of you and your trouble,” she said. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” cried Helen. “I ought not to have told you so late last night. Selfish little pig I am!” Aunt Susan patted her hand gently.