"Don't forget the flowers that the squire's gardener gave us," said Mark the Poet.
Without aid from her husband, the wife took down basket and nosegay, settled her cloak, smoothed her gown, and said, "Very odd! they don't seem to expect us, Mark. How still the house is! Go and knock; they can't ha' gone to bed yet."
Mark knocked at the door—no answer. A light passed rapidly across the windows on the upper floor, but still no one came to his summons. Mark knocked again. A gentleman dressed in clerical costume, now coming from Lansinere Park, on the opposite side of the road, paused at the sound of Mark's second and more impatient knock, and said civilly,
"Are you not the young folks my friend John Avenel told me this morning he expected to visit him?"
"Yes, please, Mr. Dale," said Mrs. Fairfield, dropping her courtesy.
"You remember me! and this is my dear good man!"
"What! Mark the Poet?" said the curate of Lansmere, with a smile. "Come to write squibs for the election?"
"Squibs, sir!" cried Mark, indignantly.
"Burns wrote squibs," said the curate, mildly.
Mark made no answer, but again knocked at the door.
This time, a man, whose face, even seen by the starlight, was much flushed, presented himself at the threshold.