“Yes, I have been wishing to speak for some months past. I think, dear, you ought to be more serious, and give me greater help than you have done hitherto. Do you follow me?” If the quiet Rectory garden had suddenly been transformed into a Sahara, and the golden laburnum by which she was sitting, into a pillar of fire, she could not have been more bewildered. But she felt a horrible pain, as from a stab, and the tears started to her eyes. “No. Not at all--what is it?” “I don’t wish to be unkind to you, Yvonne. I am only speaking from a sense of duty. Once said, it will be, I am sure, enough.” “But what is it? What is it?” she repeated piteously. “What have I done to displease you?” He took up his parable, with crossed legs and joined finger tips, and in a quiet, unemotional voice catalogued her failings. She was not sufficiently alive to the deeper responsibilities of her position. Many parochial duties that devolved upon the Rector’s wife, she had left undone. She took no pains to improve her acquaintance with doctrinal and ecclesiastical affairs. “I am not exaggerating,” he said, “for you did tell the Sunday-school children that St. John the Baptist was present at the Crucifixion, Yvonne, did n’t you?” He smiled, as if to soften the severity of his charges; but Yvonne’s face was fixed in tragic dismay, and the tears were rolling down her cheeks. He rose and advanced to her with outstretched arms. She obeyed his suggestion mechanically and allowed herself to stand in his embrace. “It is best to say it all out at once, Yvonne,” he said gently. “And you will think over it, I know. You must n’t be hurt, little wife.” But she was--to the depths of her heart. “I did n’t know you were not pleased with me,” she said with trembling lip. “I thought I was doing my very best to make you happy.” “And you have, my child--very happy.” “Oh no--I have n’t. I will try to do what you want, Everard. But I told you I was n’t fit for you--I can do nothing, nothing but just sing a little. But I will try Everard. Forgive me.” “Freely, freely, dearest,” said the magnanimous man, patting her on the shoulder. “There, there,” he added, kissing her forehead. “It pained me intensely to say what I did. But if duties were always pleasant, it would be a world of righteousness. Dry your eyes and smile, Yvonne. And come and play my accompaniment for a few minutes before dinner.” He drew her arm within his and led her into the house, through the open French window, talking of trifles to assure her of his affectionate forgiveness. It was not in Yvonne’s nature to show resentment. She fell outwardly into his humour, and thanked him sweetly for his somewhat exaggerated attentions in arranging the piano and music; but as she played, the notes became blurred. “A little out there,” he said, standing behind her, his violin under his chin. “Let us go back four bars.”