However, for once ‘they say’ is wrong. Katherine Crosby had married Sir William Forster two years after the termination of that remarkable visit, and nothing had been seen of her since that, until now. She had, however, in between shaken off Lady Melland. She has brought an innumerable company in her train, thus justifying the idea of Curraghcloyne that she would probably follow in her aunt’s footsteps, and, as I have said, the village has waked to find itself no longer deserted, but the centre of a very brilliant crowd. Yesterday was the first of August, Saturday, and a most unendurable one on the small platform of the railway-station. Possibly during its brief existence so many basket-trunks have never been laid upon its modest flags before. To-day is Sunday, and possibly also the parish church has never had so large a congregation within its whitewashed walls. Even the Methodists, quite a large portion of the Curraghcloyne people, have deserted their chapel for the orthodox church. Even Miss Ricketty has been heard to say with distinct regret that she ‘wished she was a Protestant for once.’ The Hall pews, which number four, and for which Mr. Crosby, during all his wanderings, has paid carefully, are all filled, and the three seats behind them again, that have vacant sittings in them, are all filled also with the servants of the people in the four front seats. Never was there such a display in the small church of Curraghcloyne! And it was acknowledged afterwards by everyone in the town that though the Rector did not ‘stir a hair,’ the curate was decidedly ‘onaisy.’ The curate was unnerved beyond a doubt. He grew fatter and stouter as the service went on, and he does not know to this day how he got through his sermon. He says now, that people oughtn’t to spring people on one without a word of preparation. Susan tried to keep her eyes off the Hall pews, but in spite of herself her eyes wandered. Betty did not try to keep her eyes off at all, so they wandered freely. She was able, half an hour later, to tell Susan not only the number of guests Mr. Crosby had, but the exact colour of each gown the women wore, and she told Susan privately that she thought, if ever she were a rich woman, she would never let her servants wear red ribbons in their bonnets in church. Mr. Haldane rushes through his sermon at the rate of an American liner, and presently the service is over, and all move, with the cultivated leisurely steps that are meant to hide the desire to run, towards the open door. Some of the other Rectory people have gone through the side-door, and, with Bonnie’s hand fast clasped in hers, Susan is following after them, when a well-known voice calls to her: ‘Susan, my sister wants very much to know you. Will you let me introduce you to her?’ Susan turns her face, now delicately pink, and she sees a small, dainty, pretty creature holding out her hand to her with the prettiest smile in the world. Is this Mr. Crosby’s sister?