The Sunday which I have just described, on which Miss Susan did not go to church, had been spent by the young ladies in their usual way. There had been a river party, preceded by a luncheon at Everard’s house, which, having been planned when the weather was hot, had of course to be carried out, though the day was cold with that chill of July which is more penetrating than December. The girls in their white dresses had paid for their pleasure, and the somewhat riotous late dinner which awaited the party at the Hatch had scarcely sufficed to warm their feet and restore their comfort. It was only next morning, pretty late, over the breakfast which they shared in Kate’s room, the largest of the two inhabited by the sisters, that they could talk over their previous day’s pleasure. And even then their attention was disturbed by a curious piece of news which had been brought to them along with their tray, and which was to the effect that Herbert Austin had suddenly and miraculously recovered his health, thanks having been given for him in the parish church at St. Austin’s on the previous morning. The gardener had gone to church there, with the intention of negotiating with the gardener at Whiteladies about certain seedlings, and he had brought back the information. His wife had told it to the housekeeper, and the housekeeper to the butler, and the butler to the young ladies’ maid, so that the report had grown in magnitude as it rolled onward. Sarah reported with a courtesy that Mr. Herbert was quite well, and was expected home directly--indeed, she was not quite sure whether he was not at home already, and in church when the clergyman read out his name as returning thanks--that would be the most natural way; and as she thought it over, Sarah concluded, and said, that this must have been what she heard. “Herbert better! what a bore!” said Sophy, not heeding the presence of the maid. “What right has he to get better, I should like to know, and cut papa out?” “Everybody has a right to do the best for themselves, when they can,” said Kate, whose rôle it was to be sensible; “but I don’t believe it can be true.” “I assure you, miss,” said Sarah, who was a pert maid, such as should naturally belong to such young ladies, “as gardener heard it with his own ears, and there could be no doubt on the subject. I said, ‘My young ladies won’t never believe it;’ and Mr. Beaver, he said, ‘They’ll find as it’s too true!’” “It was very impudent of Beaver to say anything of the sort,” said Kate, “and you may tell him so. Now go; you don’t require to wait any longer. I’ll ring when I’m ready to have my hair done. Hold your tongue, Soph, for two minutes, till that girl’s gone. They tell everything, and they remember everything.”