After her failure with Mrs. Lear it occurred to Loveday to go where she
should have gone in the first place--whither she might have gone had
not some irk of conscience whispered her that her purpose was all too
worldly--to the wife of the Vicar, Mrs. Veale. This Mrs. Veale was the
good lady who had stood sponsor for Loveday on that day when Aunt Senath
had perforce to blazon her sister's shame at the font. Ever since that
day Mrs. Veale had done her duty by Loveday without fail, instructing
her in the catechism regularly and occasionally presenting her with the
clothing of Miss Letitia Veale--who was a couple of years older than
Loveday--when the garments were outgrown and when they were suitable.
Mrs. Veale was too thoughtful a Christian to give Loveday artificial
flowers or silken petticoats unfitted to her station, but flannels,
thickened by so much washing that Saint Anthony of Egypt himself could
not have divined a female within their folds, were always forthcoming
to protect the orphan girl from wintry winds.
It was no day for flannel when Loveday knocked--with the timidity that
always assailed her, to her own annoyance, when she was about to see her
godmother--on the back door of the Vicarage. She heard her own voice,
robbed of its warm eagerness, asking of the stout cook whether Mrs.
Veale could see her for a minute. The cook sent the housemaid to the
Vicar's lady with the request, and Loveday stood in the large, sunny
kitchen smelling the strange rich foods preparing for the four o'clock
dinner.
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