This explanation made the spring pass quietly enough, but not without many questions that brought the blood to Elinor’s face. When she was asked by some one, for the first time, “When do you expect Mr. Compton, Elinor?” the sudden wild flush of colour which flooded her countenance startled the questioner as much as the question did herself. “Oh, I beg your pardon!” said the injudicious but perfectly innocent seeker for information. I fear that Elinor fell upon her mother after this, and demanded to know what she had said. But as Mrs. Dennistoun was innocent of anything but having said that Philip was abroad, there was no satisfaction to be got out of that. Some time after, one of the Miss Hills congratulated Elinor, having seen in the papers that Mr. Compton was returning to town for the season. “I suppose, dear Elinor, we shan’t have you with us much longer,” this lady said. And then it became known at the Cottage that Mary Dale was returning to the Rectory. This was the last aggravation, and Elinor, who had now recovered her strength and energy, and temper along with it, received the news with an outburst of impatience which frightened her mother. “You may as well go through the parish and ring the bell, and tell everybody everything,” she said. “Mary Dale will have heard all, and a great deal more than all; she will come with her budget, and pour it out far and wide; she will report scenes that never took place: and quarrels, and all that--that woman insinuated to John--and she will be surrounded with people who will shake their heads, and sink their voices when we come in and say, ‘Poor Elinor!’ I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it,” she cried. “My darling! that was bound to come sooner or later. We must set our faces like a rock, and look as if we were unaware of anything----” “I cannot look as if I were unaware. I cannot meet all their cruel eyes. I can see, now, the smile on Mary Dale’s face, that will say, ‘I told you so.’ I shall hear her say it even when I am in my room, with the combe between. I know exactly how she will say it--‘If Elinor had listened to me----’” “Elinor,” said poor Mrs. Dennistoun, “I cannot contradict you, dear. It will be so--but none of them are cruel, not even Mary Dale. They will make their remarks--who could help it? we should ourselves if it were some one else’s case: but they will not be cruel--don’t think so--they will be full of sympathy----” “Which is a great deal worse,” Elinor said, in her unreason; “the one might be borne, but the other I will not endure. Sympathy, yes! They will all be sorry for me--they will say they knew how it would be. Oh, I know I have not profited as I ought by what has happened to me. I am unsubdued. I am as impatient and as proud as ever. It is quite true, but it cannot be mended. It is more than I can bear.”