"Good-bye, child," she said stretching out her delicately-gloved hand to Peggy. "It is quite possible that we may meet again."
"If we do, I shall remember you," was the grave response. "I shall remember you by your voice. And I can't help thinking that somewhere we have met before, or perhaps it is only that you remind me of some one—that must be it."
The lady looked at Peggy searchingly, and shook her head. Then she went away, leaving the little girl in a very thoughtful frame of mind. When Mr. Tiddy returned, after having accompanied the stranger down the hill and placed her in the hired carriage in which she had been driven from Penzance, he asked Peggy what she thought of their late visitor.
"She seemed rather unhappy, didn't she, Mr. Tiddy?" she questioned.
"Unhappy?" he said, reflectively. "I don't know about that. To me she appeared simply discontented. She is a selfish woman, I'll be bound—so maybe you're right, my dear, for selfish folk are never happy—and wrapped up in her own concerns. But she liked my daffodils, didn't she? I could see she had a real love for flowers. And she was interested in you, too. One mustn't judge by appearances altogether—"
"I judge by her voice," said Peggy, as he broke off, leaving his sentence unfinished.
"A hard, cold voice, wasn't it?" questioned Mr. Tiddy.
"Y-e-s. Was she very old, Mr. Tiddy?"
"Over seventy, I should say."
"That's a great age, isn't it? I wonder if she is always alone like she was to-day. Perhaps she has no one to love and care for her now she is old. How sad that must be! Poor old lady!" And there was deepest sympathy in her tone.