“What is the matter, Olivia?” asked Mr. Vanley, not irritably, but with a touch of sober earnestness, almost amounting to anxiety, which was always present with him. “What are you laughing at? Good-afternoon, Mr. Sparrow.”
The young man came forward.
“Do tell us, Miss Olivia!” he said, throwing as much eagerness into his voice as possible. “Pray let us share the joke.”
“It was no joke,” she said, calmly; and turning away, began to arrange some music.
“Miss Olivia was laughing at me,” said Mr. Sparrow, almost plaintively.
“My dear Edwin—and you, Mr. Bradstone—you must hear this strange story of Mr. Sparrow’s. Now, Mr. Sparrow, I insist!” exclaimed Miss Amelia, clasping her hands in the latest “intensity.”
Mr. Sparrow was nothing loth, and Mr. Vanley sank into a chair with so palpable an air of resignation that a smile flitted across Olivia’s face. Perhaps that encouraged Bartley Bradstone, for he approached her in a slow, hesitating kind of fashion, and talked to her in a low voice—he was watching her cold, downcast face covertly all the time—while Mr. Sparrow inflicted his story of the mysterious stranger upon Mr. Vanley.
The master of the Grange listened in silence until the narration was complete, and the old gentleman paused to see the effect of his recital; then Mr. Vanley looked up and said, quietly:
“Not a very promising neighbor. One would think he was insane; not that the purchase of The Dell is the act of a lunatic. It is the prettiest little place in the country.”
He rose as he spoke, and, walking to the window, looked out pensively at the chimneys of The Dell, which just peeped over the tops of his own elms growing on the slope of the lane, at the bottom of which The Dell nestled.