“You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,” observed the fair artist. “I took the old hall once on a moonlight night, and I suppose I must take it again on a snowy winter’s day, and then again on a dark cloudy evening; for I really have nothing else to paint. I have been told that you have a fine view of the sea somewhere in the neighbourhood. Is it true?—and is it within walking distance?”
“Yes, if you don’t object to walking four miles—or nearly so—little short of eight miles, there and back—and over a somewhat rough, fatiguing road.”
“In what direction does it lie?”
I described the situation as well as I could, and was entering upon an explanation of the various roads, lanes, and fields to be traversed in order to reach it, the goings straight on, and turnings to the right and the left, when she checked me with,—
“Oh, stop! don’t tell me now: I shall forget every word of your directions before I require them. I shall not think about going till next spring; and then, perhaps, I may trouble you. At present we have the winter before us, and—”
She suddenly paused, with a suppressed exclamation, started up from her seat, and saying, “Excuse me one moment,” hurried from the room, and shut the door behind her.
Curious to see what had startled her so, I looked towards the window—for her eyes had been carelessly fixed upon it the moment before—and just beheld the skirts of a man’s coat vanishing behind a large holly-bush that stood between the window and the porch.
“It’s mamma’s friend,” said Arthur.
Rose and I looked at each other.
“I don’t know what to make of her at all,” whispered Rose.