"Anna wants a friend," pursued the Professor, thoughtfully. "Little as I see of her, I can tell that. She has the sort of nature which depends greatly on influence--every one does, I suppose, but some of us can stand alone better than others."

"Anna seems to get on very well," said Delia. "People always like her."

"Yes, yes, yes," said the Professor, nodding his head gently, "so I should think--so I should think. But when I say a 'friend,' Delia, I don't mean that sort of thing; I mean some one who's willing to take a little trouble."

"I don't see how you can be a friend to a person that doesn't want you,"

said Delia, impatiently. "If Anna wanted me--"

"You're not displeased with her about anything, I hope?" said the Professor, anxiously; "she has not offended you?"

Delia hesitated. She could not bear to disappoint him, as he waited eagerly for her answer.

"The fact is," she said at length, "I don't understand Anna. She doesn't look at things in the same way as I do. She gets on better with the Palmers than with me."

"I'm sorry for that," said the Professor, with a discouraged air, "but Anna's very young, you know, in years and character too. I daresay she needs patience."

"I'm afraid I've not been patient," said Delia, humbly.

Mr Goodwin was the only person in the world to whom she was always ready to own herself in the wrong.

"Oh, well, patience comes with years," he said; "you're too young yet to know much about it. It's often hard enough, even after a long life, to bear with the failings of others, and to understand our own. People are so different. Some are strong, and some are weak. And the strong ones are always expecting the weak ones to stand upright as they do, and go straight on their way without earing for praise or blame. And, of course they can't--it's not in them--they stumble and turn aside at little things that the others wouldn't notice. And the weak ones, to whom, perhaps, it is natural to be sweet-tempered, and yielding, and forgiving, expect those virtues from the strong--and they don't find them--and then they wonder how it is that they find it hard to forgive and impossible to forget, and call them harsh and unbearable. And so we go on misunderstanding instead of helping each other."

Delia's face softened. Perhaps she had been too hasty with Anna--too quick to blame.

"Listen," said the Professor, "I was reading this while I waited for service to begin this evening."

He had taken out of his pocket a stumpy, and very shabby little brown volume of Thomas a Kempis, which was very familiar to her.

"But now, G.o.d hath thus ordered it, that we may learn to bear one another's burdens, for no man is without fault; no man but hath his burden; no man is self-sufficient; no man has wisdom enough for himself alone. But we ought to bear with one another, comfort, help, instruct, and admonish one another."

He shut the little book, and turned his eyes absently across the broad, green meadows. Delia knew that absent look of the Professor's well. It meant that he was travelling back into the past, seeing and hearing things of which she knew nothing. Yet, though he did not seem to be speaking to her, every word he said sank into her mind.

"It's very hard for strong people to bear with weakness. It's such a disappointing, puzzling thing to them. They are always expecting impossibilities. Yet they are bound to help. It is a sin to turn aside. To leave weakness to trail along in the mire when they might be a prop for it to lean on and climb upwards by. The strong have a duty to the weak, and lessons to learn from them. But they are hard lessons--hard lessons."

Long after he had finished, Mr Goodwin sat with his eyes fixed musingly on the distance, and Delia would not disturb his thoughts by a single word. Even when they walked home together they had very little to say, and were both in a silent mood. When they parted at the turning to Back Row, Delia spoke almost for the first time.

"I'm not going to be cross to Anna any more, Professor. You may feel quite happy about that."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE PALMERS' PICNIC.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend.

One very hot afternoon a little later, there had been a glee-practising at the Hunts' house, a meeting which, of all others, was most distasteful to Delia. The last guest had taken leave, and her mother being on the edge of a comfortable nap in the shaded drawing-room, she was just stealing away to her garret, when the bell rang.

"Don't go away, my love," murmured Mrs Hunt, half-asleep, and as she spoke Mrs Winn's solid figure advanced into the room.

Delia resigned herself to listen to the disjointed chat which went on between the two ladies for a little while, but soon the visitor, taking pity on Mrs Hunt's brave efforts to keep her eyes from closing, turned her attention in another direction.

"I'm afraid," she said, moving her chair nearer to Delia, "that poor, old Mr Goodwin must be sadly disappointed about his grandchild, isn't he?"

It always vexed Delia to hear the Professor called "poor and old."

"Why?" she asked, shortly.

"Well, because he evidently sees so little of her," said Mrs Winn. "It has turned out exactly as I said it would. I said from the very first, that sort of marriage never answers. It always creates discord. Of course, it's a difficult position for Mrs Forrest, but she ought to remember that the child owes duties and respect to Mr Goodwin. 'Honour thy father and mother,' and, of course, that applies to a grandfather too."

"I believe Mr Goodwin is quite satisfied," answered Delia.

"Oh, I daresay," said Mrs Winn. "We all know he's a dear, meek, old man, who could never say boo to a goose. But that doesn't make it right. Now, I know for a fact that he expected Anna Forrest to tea with him one evening, and she never came. I know all about it, because I happened to send him some trout that morning, and Mrs Cooper went in to cook them. Mrs Cooper chars for me, you know. 'I was quite sorry, ma'am,' she said, when she came the next day, 'to see the poor, old gentleman standing at the window with his watch in his hand, and the trout done to a turn, and his flowers and all. It's hard on the old to be disappointed.'"

Mrs Winn rolled out these sentences steadily, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Delia all the while. Now she waited for a reply.

"I heard about it," she said. "Anna was not able to go."

"Then she should have sent word sooner, or her aunt should have done so.

It was a great want of respect. I'm surprised, Delia, you should take it so coolly, when you think so much of Mr Goodwin. Now, if _I_ should see Anna Forrest, I shall make a point of putting her conduct in a right light to her. I daresay no one has done so yet--and she is but a child."

Delia shivered inwardly. She knew that Mrs Winn was quite capable of doing as she said. How the Professor would shrink from such interference! Yet she did not feel equal to saying much against it, for Mrs Winn had always kept her and every one else in Dornton in order.

Her right to rebuke and admonish was taken as a matter of course.

"You don't know, you see," she began, "how it was that Anna was prevented. Perhaps--"

Mrs Winn had now risen, and stood ready to depart, with her umbrella planted firmly on the ground.

"My dear," she interrupted, raising one hand, "I know _this_. Wrong is wrong, and right is right. That's enough for me, and always has been.

Now, I won't disturb your dear mother to say good-bye, for I think she's just dropped off. I'll go softly out."

She moved with ponderous care out of the room, followed by Delia, but came to a stand again in the hall.

"You heard about this picnic of the Palmers?" she said, inquiringly.

"You're going, of course. It seems to be a large affair."

"I'm not quite sure," said Delia.

"Julia Gibbins came in this morning," continued Mrs Winn, "quite excited about her invitation. She wanted to know what I meant to wear.

Julia's so absurdly frivolous, she thinks as much of her dress as a girl of sixteen. 'At our age, my dear Julia,' I said to her, 'we need not trouble ourselves about that. You may depend on it, no one will notice what we have on. For myself, I shall put on my Paisley shawl and my thickest boots. Picnics are always draughty and damp.' I don't think she quite liked it. Now, do you suppose the Palmers have asked Mr Goodwin? Anna Forrest's so much there, that I should _almost_ think they would."

"Why not, as well as other people in Dornton?" asked Delia.

"He never goes to Waverley," said Mrs Winn.

"That is by his own wish," said Delia, quickly. "He has told me about that."

"Oh, indeed, by his own wish," repeated Mrs Winn, her wide open grey eyes resting thoughtfully upon Delia; "that's strange, with his grandchild staying there. However," with a parting nod, as she moved slowly out, "we shall soon see about the picnic."