"No—oh no!"
"Not a friend of the family?" he questioned dubiously.
"Not a friend—exactly," she answered. He was very inquisitive, she thought, but she could see he did not intend to be rude. "Keep to the right, you said? Good morning—and thank you."
Felicia started towards the village at a quick rate, but she slackened her footsteps and looked around her attentively when she reached the first cottages. The village street was long and straggling, and almost deserted on this hot, summer afternoon, for most of the adult inhabitants were haymaking and the children were at school. Felicia passed the schoolhouse by-and-by—it stood on the opposite side of the road to the church—from whence came the monotonous singsong noise of some fifty young voices repeating a lesson. Close to the church, which was a picturesque old edifice, was the Vicarage—a modern red-brick house, with bow windows. The Vicarage garden joined the churchyard wall, in which there was a door of communication. Felicia was naturally an observant child, and little escaped the notice of her sharp eyes as she followed the porter's directions and kept straight on. Her heart began to palpitate unevenly when she, at length, reached the big iron gate at the entrance to the Priory grounds, and as she passed up the wide carriage drive leading to the house she began to tremble with nervousness, and when she stood before the front door, it was several minutes before she could pluck up sufficient courage to ring the bell; and the instant she did nerve herself to do so, she felt inclined to take to her heels and run away.
In answer to her ring, the door was opened by a tall, old man, with snowy hair and a pair of bright, brown eyes. He spoke to Felicia in a tone of indulgent surprise.
"Well, little maiden, what brings you here ringing at the front door—eh?"
Felicia regarded him timidly. Her limbs were trembling, and she was very flustered, for she had jumped to the conclusion that this benevolent-looking old man must be her grandfather.
"Oh, please," she gasped, "are you—are you Mr. Renford?"
"No, my dear," he replied with a chuckle of amusement. "But who, pray, are you? I don't seem to know your face—you're not one of the village children?"
"No. I—I've come from Bristol. I—I particularly want to see Mr. Renford."