"Why, Esther," he laughed, "you're carrying an umbrella."
"It was raining in London," she said gravely.
He was on the point of exclaiming at such prudence in Esther when he blushed in the remembrance that she was a nun. During the drive back they talked shyly about the characters of the village and the Rectory animals.
"I feel as if you'd just come back from school for the holidays," he said.
"Yes, I feel as if I'd been at school," she agreed. "How sweet the country smells."
"Don't you miss the country sometimes in Shoreditch?" he asked.
She shook her head and looked at him with puzzled eyes.
"Why should I miss anything in Shoreditch?"
Mark was abashed and silent for the rest of the drive, because he fancied that Esther might have supposed that he was referring to the past, rather than give which impression he would have cut out his tongue. When they reached the Rectory, Mark was moved almost to tears by the greetings.
"Dear little sister," Miriam murmured. "How happy we are to have you with us again."
"Dear child," said Mrs. Ogilvie. "And really she does look like a nun."
"My dearest girl, we have missed you every moment of these four years," said the Rector, bending to kiss her. "How cold your cheek is."
"It was quite chilly driving," said Mark quickly, for there had come upon him a sudden dismay lest they should think she was a ghost. He was relieved when Miriam announced tea half an hour earlier than usual in honour of Esther's arrival; it seemed to prove that to her family she was still alive.
"After tea I'm going to Wych Maries to pick St. John's wort for the church. Would you like to walk as far?" Mark suggested, and then stood speechless, horrified at his want of tact. He had the presence of mind not to excuse himself, and he was grateful to Esther when she replied in a calm voice that she should like a walk after tea.
When the opportunity presented itself, Mark apologized for his suggestion.
"By why apologize?" she asked. "I assure you I'm not at all tired and I really should like to walk to Wych Maries."
He was amazed at her self-possession, and they walked along with unhastening conventual steps to where the St. John's wort grew amid a tangle of ground ivy in the open spaces of a cypress grove, appearing most vividly and richly golden like sunlight breaking from black clouds in the western sky.