"I know when I want a thing and mean to get it, Miss Sylvia."
"Did you ever see anything more beautiful than the rose-light on that mountain, Sir Anthony?"
"I have seen more beautiful things, Miss Pamela."
He spoke with the utmost simplicity, but the girl blushed nevertheless, and was furious with herself for blushing.
"See how rosy the peak is," she went on in some confusion, "but the woods are purple at the base. If we were over there where the road winds round the hill-foot, we should hear nothing but the singing of little streams. They are chattering through the bracken everywhere, and spilling into the road, where they make little channels for themselves, clear as amber."
"They make your boots very wet and your skirt draggle-tailed," remarked Sylvia.
"I see chimneys rising above the wood," said Sir Anthony. "Is there a house there, then?"
"There is, but it is empty at present. It belongs to Lord Glengall, who is away just now. It has a queer story attached to it."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Lord Glengall went to Australia as a boy, and was unheard of for years. His mother lived there, with one old servant, in the bitterest poverty. She was so proud no one dared to interfere, until, it having been noticed that the chimneys were smokeless for days, the house was entered by force, and mistress and maid were found dying of starvation side by side. The house was full of valuables—lace and plate, and all kinds of lovely things—but they were heirlooms, and the old lady would rather starve than sell them, and the old servant was quite of the same mind."