“Well, my dear,” he said, kindly, “and how have you been getting on?”
“Mr. Temple is in the drawing-room, father,” said May, nervously.
“What—the squire?”
“No, Mr. John Temple.”
But John by this time had appeared. He went up to Mr. Churchill and shook hands with him.
“Well, Mr. Churchill, I hear I have to congratulate you,” he said, with a smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Temple,” answered the farmer. “Sarah, my dear, this is Mr. John Temple, our landlord’s nephew and heir.”
Upon this Mrs. Churchill bowed graciously, and after a few more pleasant words, John Temple went away. Then Mrs. Churchill began bustling about the house as if she had lived in it for twenty years. She remarked on the furniture, and decided where she would place her own “things,” as she called them. She made no pretense about consulting May in any of her arrangements, but took her place at once as mistress of the house and all that it contained.
“But what matter,” thought May, softly, as she stood looking out on the still garden on the night of her stepmother’s arrival at Woodside. “What matter does anything here now make to me?”