"You are a rich woman, Margaret," he said impressively, his eyes following the children's forms as they continually disappeared and reappeared between the boulders in the rock garden. "That elder girl of yours is a beauty. Is your boy good-looking, too?"
"People tell me he is a handsome lad," she replied, smiling. "Celia is very pretty, I know. I hope you will not spoil her, Uncle Jasper."
"Pooh!" he cried, "she does not take after her mother in disposition if she can be spoilt! How well and sensibly she talks! She appears very observant."
"In some ways she is older than her years, and I regret it," Mrs. Wallis remarked, a shade of uneasiness crossing her face. "Joy is much more childish; but, of course, she is two years younger than her sister."
"I suppose you considered my invitation a strange one," Sir Jasper said, abruptly; "I know you did from what Tillotson told me, and from your hesitation in agreeing to comply with my request. I am glad you decided to humour an old man's whim, my dear," he added, meaningly; "believe me, neither you nor yours will be the worse off eventually from the fact of your having done so."
[CHAPTER IV.]
AUNT AND NIECE.
NOT more than five minutes' walk from the entrance to the grounds of the Moat House was a six-roomed, thatched cottage, called Home Vale, standing back from the high road, from which it was divided by a long strip of garden and a thick privet hedge. It was a picturesque little home, looking at it from the outside, with its windows hung with spotless white lace curtains, its porch covered with clematis, and its front door posted invitingly open to admit the May sunshine, and the fresh breeze scented with lilies-of-the-valley and jonquils. Inside, everything was in apple-pie order. The brass face of the tall, eight-day clock in the little entrance hall shone brightly; the furniture in the parlour, which looked out on the flower-garden and the strip of high road beyond, was arranged with evident care; whilst upstairs, the three small bedrooms with their latticed windows were pictures of neatness and freshness, their beds hung with white dimity curtains, and their dressing-tables draped in white, starched muslin petticoats looped up with coloured ribbons to match the shades of the wall papers.
But, perhaps, the prettiest room in the cottage was the front kitchen, with its red-tiled floor and white-washed walls, against which the copper warming-pan and brass and tin cooking utensils showed off so well. A canary sung gaily in a cage hanging in the window, from which was an uninterrupted view of the kitchen garden, where the mistress of Home Vale was at work on this sunny May morning, industriously turning up a piece of ground with a spade, handling the tool with almost the strength and dexterity of a man.
A tall, muscular, middle-aged woman was the mistress of Home Vale, clad at present in short, drab, serge skirt; thick laced-up boots; a washed-out cotton blouse; a broad-rimmed straw hat; and a pair of gardening gloves. A small knot of iron-grey hair was visible beneath the brim of the hat behind; and when she paused for a minute or so to rest, and glanced up at a lark carolling high overhead, she revealed a dark, sunburnt countenance, with large, irregular features, and a pair of bright, brown eyes.