"Would you? Ah, you don't know me yet. I'm always saying things I have to be sorry for. You would soon be disappointed in me." Then adroitly she turned the subject, as if unwilling to commit herself further. CHAPTER IV THINGS PAST AND PRESENT MRS. WYVERNE waited in the front sitting-room of Burn Cottage, looking out upon the stream, the murmur of which came pleasantly to her ears. She always took care to be ready some time before she had to start on any expedition, having reached an age when haste and flurry are undesirable. She was stout and heavy in figure, but she held herself with dignity, and there was a Quaker-like serenity about her handsome old face. Her dress was of black silk, good as to material, plain in make, and her bonnet was a copy of the Quaker type. In earlier years she had been drawn to join for a while the Quaker community, and she still admired many of their methods. By her side stood a small table, on which lay her spectacle case, her large-print Bible, her knitting basket, and her writing case. The centre of the room was filled by a round table, remnant of a bygone age. The walls were adorned with texts, some printed and framed in wood, some worked in silks on perforated cardboard, with fancy edgings of home manufacture. A row of devotional books, most of them printed fifty years earlier, with faded bindings, stood upon the quaint chiffonier. Grace and charm had evidently not been the aim of those who saw to the interior of Burn Cottage. The elder grand-daughter, Barbara Pringle, only child of Mrs. Wyverne's only daughter—between whom and the father of Phyllys a wide gap in age existed—had inherited nothing of the old lady's good looks. She was clumsily made, bony and uncouth, with lustreless hair, dressed in a flat and unbecoming style, features of an exaggerated type, and an uncomfortable expression. Her dress seemed to have been put together anyhow, with no effort after what might suit the individual; and results were in marked contrast with the dignified simplicity of the elder lady. Barbara Pringle was a good woman, but not so good as she counted herself, which augured a lack of humility. One virtue she had—a supreme devotion to her grandmother, for whom she would have done anything. But out of this sprang an intense jealousy of anybody who should interfere with her monopoly. Since Phyllys naturally came in for a large share of grandmotherly affection, it followed that Barbara could see no good in Phyllys. Barbara's was not a wide mind. Therein spoke Mr. Dugdale truly. Her natural make was contracted, and her opportunities had been few. Left an orphan at three, she had spent forty years at Midfell, and the two or three people for whom she cared could not uplift her to a broader view of life. Her method of weighing the worth of others was through the test of—not the lives that they lived, but the opinions which they held. Even this she failed to apply fairly in the case of Phyllys.