In a moment or two a smile of recognition passed over her face as she saw Miss Dormer, and she curtsied, awaiting some explanation of the pleasure of the ladies.
Lady Quaintree had ascertained the name of the housekeeper, and asked if she were in the house.
“Yes, my lady,” the girl said.
“We wish to see her,” Miss Dormer said.
“Yes, miss,” the girl again said, curtsying with rustic civility at almost every monosyllable.
“Open the gates, and let the ladies drive up to the house,” the groom said. “Is your grandfather at home?”
“Yes,” the girl answered; but she unfastened the great iron gates herself, and let them swing back.
Then she closed them, when the ponies had scampered through, and as the ladies passed up the carriage-drive she ran back to the lodge, to inform her deaf old grandfather that some visitors had arrived.
“Upon my word,” said Lady Quaintree, as they came in sight of the stately old pile, “you are an exceedingly lucky girl, my Lois.”
Lois smiled dreamily. No fear, no foreboding, no distrust disturbed the soft serenity of that moment.