"But it is she who is not fair to me. She never was fair. It isn't that I'm sorry to come back to you and Mrs. Hazel—or to Grannie! It is the being made like this—forced!—without any choice. She has no right. I am not a child now. And I did so count on the next few days—if it might not be more, just those days. I was learning so much that was new and lovely!" "Yes. But the lessons we want to learn are not always those that the Great Teacher sets us." He spoke in an everyday tone, not as one preaching. "It isn't—'that?' It is Barbara!" "It is always 'that,' my child—no matter how the disappointment comes." "If she had explained—if Grannie needed me. It is the being made that I hate. Wouldn't you, in my place?" "Yes," he said, and her face grew softer. "I'm glad. Then it isn't altogether wrong to be vexed." "No; perhaps not. But if I were you, I wouldn't waste too much time over your cousin's share. If she has wronged you, she has to be forgiven; and it is more dignified not to show offence. People make foolish blunders; but one may credit them with a right intention." "Ought one? Only, I'm sure she did mean unkindness." Then, with a laugh of apology—"Perhaps I am as unfair to her as she is to me." "Good!" They were now moving on. "To see in oneself that possibility is a first step towards a right spirit. Nine-tenths of the disagreements in this world arise from a want of fairness in judging others. We have too often one rule for ourselves, another for other people." He flipped off a dandelion-head with the tip of his whip. "One should be fair towards everybody—" and he could not resist adding—"even Miss Pringle." Phyllys' eyes twinkled. She knew that her cousin and her cousin's friend were thorns in the Vicar's side. Whatever he did they opposed; whatever he said they contradicted. But he met their opposition in a large and manly way, and laughed at their contradiction. It was more serious when they systematically upset his influence among the cottagers; yet even there the Vicar was reasonable. He insisted that though their methods were, from his point of view, entirely wrong, their aims were good; and he would allow no wholesale condemnation. Phyllys, aware of all this, realised the force of his advice. "I'll try," she said. "Only Barbara isn't fair towards 'them!'" "Towards—?" "Giles and Colin—and Mrs. Keith. She thinks unjustly. She says they are bad." "And you have found them good?" "Yes!" emphatically. Then, "Yes," more slowly. "I suppose there are different sorts of goodness. I don't mean that they are—perfect." "We need not expect from others what others don't find in us." "Mrs. Keith puzzles me; still, in a way she is religious. I am sure she is. And Giles—he doesn't say much, but I couldn't tell you how kind he is, how he thinks of everybody. Of course—" and a fresh pause—"he has faults." "So have we!"