The Squire was silent and motionless.
"But it seems like as if she couldn't abear now to speak to me of the past,—no, not yet of her husband, Phil Morris. Nor she won't hear him blamed. 'Let bygones be bygones,' says she. Only she's told how good you've been, sir, all these years, letting her have that house in Norfolk, dirt-cheap. I'm sure, if ever I'd guessed—but there!—how was I to know, when she'd never so much as wrote word to me that she was a widow, nor was back in Old England? Nor you never spoke of her to me neither, sir!" There was a note of inquiry, a suggestion of reproach, in the last words.
Mr. Stirling dismounted.
"It was hardly my place to inform you, if she did not wish to do so herself," he said gravely. "I was not likely to forget her care of my niece; and she has been welcome to any help I could give. Would you call someone to hold my horse? Thanks,"—as the farmer took the reins,—"I'll find my way in."
He walked up the narrow flagged path, bordered by such homely flowers as double daisies, pinks, and sweet-williams. Before he could ring the door opened, and a girl stood there—fair-skinned and grey-eyed, with short brown hair curling closely over her head. She had a fragile look; and the small hands were almost transparent. A shy upward glance welcomed him.
"How do you do, Winnie? Better than you used to be? You don't seem quite at your best."
"I'm much the same, thank you, sir."
"Rheumatism bad still?"
He gazed down on her with kind concern.
"Yes, sir. It's no good me minding. Mother's in."