Then Lillian laughed, too, and Anita began to think them exceedingly heartless, but seeing her expression Mr. Kirkby patted her on the arm and began to explain. "Don't waste your sympathies on the lamb, my child," he said. "I will tell you what has happened. The lamb's mother has died or has been killed, and to save the lamb they have given it to another mother whose own lamb has died. She would not care for an unfamiliar lambkin so they have stripped the dead lamb of its fleece and fastened it upon the living lamb to make the mother sheep accept it as her own."
"Oh!" Anita looked again. "Oh, how very queer and interesting. It is a great country for sheep, isn't it?"
"A great one. You have heard of the South-down mutton, of course. Over toward Lewes is the South-down country more particularly. We shall have to take you over there, but you may eat some of the mutton almost anywhere."
They were now coming to Borton. The tide was rising and the little town on its estuary looked a charming place, a fact Anita was quick to remark upon.
"We think it quite ugly when the tide is out," Lillian told her, "though artists flock here and paint even the mud flats. They look very well in pictures with the spire of the old church somewhere in the background, but we like it best when the tide is up."
A short walk took to them to the door of Primrose Cottage, a quaintly-pretty, vine-hung abode with garden wandering off at the back and laburnum bushes at the side. It was more spacious than at first appeared as Anita noted as soon as she stepped inside. They were met at the door by an erect old lady with penetrating grey eyes, a widow's cap upon her head and a little shawl over her shoulders.
"Well, here you are at last," she exclaimed. "What brought you here, Ernest Kirkby?" she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I came to protect the strangers," retorted he, merrily.
"Sounds like your impudence," returned the old lady. "This is Katharine, of course. She looks like I supposed she would after not having laid eyes on her for—how many years is it?"
"It must be as many as sixteen or seventeen," responded her niece. "I don't see that time has changed you much, Aunt Manning."