"Eh, poor creatures! It makes your heart bleed to think of it. We may be thankful we are not foreign born!" Mrs Corby pronounced with unction, and Claire retired from the struggle, and decided that for the future it would be more tactful to learn, rather than to endeavour to teach. The next morning, therefore, she worked under Mrs Corby's supervision, picking fruit, feeding chickens, searching for eggs, and other light tasks designed to keep her in the open air; and in the afternoon accompanied the children on a message to a farm some distance away. The path lay across the fields, away from the main road, and on returning an hour later, Mrs Corby's figure was seen standing by her own gate, her hand raised to her eyes, as though watching for their approach. The children broke into a run, and Claire hurried forward, her heart beating with deep excited throbs. What was it? _Who_ was it? Nobody but Sophie and Cecil knew her address, but still, but still-- For a moment hope soared, then sank heavily down as Mrs Corby announced-- "A lady, miss. Come to see you almost as soon as you left. She's waiting in the parlour." Cecil! Claire hardly knew if she were sorry or relieved. It would be a blessing to have some one to whom she could speak, but, on the other hand, what poor Cecil had to say would not fail to be depressing. She went slowly down the passage, taking a grip over her own courage, opened the door, and stood transfixed. In the middle of the hard horsehair sofa sat Mrs Fanshawe herself, her elaborately coiffured, elaborately attired figure looking extraordinarily out of place in the prim bareness of the little room. Her gloved hands were crossed on her lap, she sat ostentatiously erect, her satin cloak falling around her in regal folds; her face was a trifle paler than usual, but the mocking light shone in her eyes. At Claire's entrance she stood up, and crossed the little room to her side. "My dear," she said calmly, "I am an obstinate old woman, but I have the sense to know when I'm beaten. I have come to offer my apologies." A generous heart is quick to forgive. At that moment Claire felt a pang indeed, but it came not from the remembrance of her own wrongs, but from the sight of this proud, domineering woman humbling herself to a girl. Impulsively she threw out both hands, impulsively she stopped Mrs Fanshawe's lips with the kiss which she had refused at parting. "Oh, stop! Please don't! Don't say any more. I was wrong, too. I took offence too quickly. You were thinking of me, as well as of yourself."