"Is that all? Trying, no doubt, but not a thing to be anxious about. I have a remedy at home which never fails to cure rheumatism. It is most efficacious. I shall bring it with me the first day I can manage to get so far." Winnie smiled. She had tried so many infallible remedies. Mrs. Brutt glanced from the one girl to the other. "And these are your only daughters, Mrs. Morris?" "Yes." "And no son?" The indistinct response might have been either "Yes" or "No." Mrs. Brutt decided to accept it as a negative. "But how nice for you to have two dear good girls, able to look after you, and to help in all the farm work. It must be so charming. Quite idyllic!" When Mrs. Brutt came across what she counted an impressive word, she was apt to work it to death; and for the time being "idyllic" was in the ascendant. "So interesting!—with all the animals about—dear dumb creatures! I dote on animals, don't you? So delightful to study their pretty little ways!" Doris, recalling the speaker's dread of cattle, supposed that the pretty little ways of cows were not included. Rain still poured without intermission, and Mrs. Brutt began to feel exhausted. Making conversation to an unresponsive world uses one's energies fast. Katherine, too, was tired of her present position, and both were glad when the footman appeared, in a dripping condition. "Would Miss Stirling go home in the carriage—or would she prefer a closed fly from the village?" "A fly certainly, and as soon as possible," decided Katherine. CHAPTER XI The Portrait THE atmosphere had become oppressive. Nobody had anything to say. Katherine was at the end of her ideas; Doris remained in the background; Jane was still subdued. Mrs. Brutt felt that it rested with her to keep the ball going. She walked across to the mantelpiece. "What a remarkable picture! Quite realistic, isn't it, Miss Stirling?" Katherine went near. "Was that painted by yourself, Mrs. Morris? No?— oh, I see—" as she made out a scrawled "P. Morris" in one corner. "I see—her husband!" in a whisper to Katherine. "What wooden rollers!" Then aloud: "How interesting for you to have this. So touching! Was your poor dear husband a sailor?" "No." "He must have had a gift—quite a gift! An artist, I suppose." "No." "Not an artist! Then he occupied his leisure hours with painting. How nice! So good for a man to have some pursuit, apart from his regular work. It keeps him away from the public-house. It makes him love his home. And I suppose your younger daughter is like her father." "No." "Indeed. She does not take after you either." "That's as may be." Mrs. Brutt was at a loss how to meet this. "I'm said to be like what mother was," Winnie observed timidly. "Indeed." The notion was preposterous. Mrs. Brutt turned to a framed photograph. "Ah, this no doubt is Mr. Morris. Such a fine-looking young man! And was it in India that you lost him?" "That's my uncle."