She understood; his words had brought the truth before her in one sinister flash, and she grew white to the lips. It was Barbara's doing! Barbara had summoned her home without cause. Barbara had cut short her happiness. But for Barbara she might still be at Castle Hill. She saw the whole; yet at first she said nothing. She dared not let herself go. So strong was the wave of resentment which rolled up, that it all but had the mastery. But she held herself in, following the Vicar, hearing his orders. She went out of the station, listened like one in a dream to his remarks, and patted kindly her old friend the Vicarage "pony," so-called—really a fine cob—who lifted his head in pleased response. And all the while that great wave was surging to and fro. It frightened her; she had never felt so wrathful. Hers was a quick temper—quick to take fire, quick to burn itself out. "A flash in the pan," her father had called it. She had many a time been annoyed with Barbara, but never to this extent. As they drove through the small town, calling at one or two shops, she was silent still, feeling rather than thinking, for her thoughts were in a maze. It seemed hard that she should not have had to the end her time of pleasure; the visit had meant so much. And to have her joy cut short for nothing by Barbara's interference—she hardly knew how to endure it. Again and again passionate resentment all but mastered her. Mr. Hazel, busy with reins and shopping, did not at first notice what was wrong. Gradually it dawned upon him that the bright smile was lacking, the merry voice still. He waited, as it was his way to wait. Not till they had left the town, and had begun the first long ascent after, did the storm that was raging find expression. He put some question, and she turned a rigid face to him. "Then Barbara has cheated me out of my pleasure! Grannie has 'not' been ill! There was no need for me to come home!" CHAPTER XXI THE THINGS THAT ARE BETWEEN the claims of truth and a desire not to compromise other people, the Vicar was in difficulties. He gave a jerk to the reins, and murmured indistinct words. "Barbara is not nervous." Phyllys caught the suggestion, only to repudiate it. She sat bolt upright. "Barbara is never nervous." Another murmur. This time she heard "mistake." "No; there is no mistake. It is on purpose. She knew how happy I was—how I wanted to stay. And she loves to make me miserable. It is 'her' doing." The Vicar made no rejoinder. He cast a concerned glance at the set face; commented to himself on the thunder-cloud overshadowing his "Pride o' the Morning;" and chirruped to the cob. A fresh pull carried them faster, till the increased gradient made slowness a necessity. Then he jumped out, lightly for his years. "Take the reins, child." "No." She was already by his side. "Cobweb has weight enough with my box."