“And that,” said I, pointing toward the distance, “that house yonder among the purple hills, is that Lord Clare’s also?”
“That,” said Turner, with a sigh, and shading his eyes with his withered hand, “that is Marston Court.”
He paused, shook his head mournfully, and then, remembering that the name was not a full answer to my question, continued, “Yes, yes, that is Lord Clare’s also. It came to him through—through his—his—through Lady Clare.”
“And who lives yonder, dear Turner?”
“No one; it is shut up.”
“I think,” said I, leaning down toward the old man, who stood with one arm thrown over the neck of my pony, “I think this world must have very few people in it for all that you tell me. No one at Greenhurst—no one out yonder—only you and Maria and me among these woods and fields.”
“And is not that enough, child?”
I shook my head.
“Are you not happy with us, Zana? What more do you want?”
“I want,” said I, kindling with the idea, “I want to see a child; you tell me the world is full of little girls and boys like me—where are they?”