They slowly filed into the village, rode past the church and parsonage,—at which latter Barbara looked lovingly, as to a haven of comfort—forded the brook, and turned in at the gates of Enville Court. When they came up to the house, and saw it free of hindering foliage, she found that it was a stately quadrangle of grey stone, with a stone terrace round three sides of it, a garden laid out in grim, Dutch square order, away from the sea; and two or three cottages, with farm-buildings and stables, grouped behind. The horses drew up at a side door.
“Now!” lethargically said Dick, lumbering off his horse. “Con ye get off by yoursen?”
“I’ll try,” grunted the rather indignant Barbara, who considered that her precious charge, Clare, was being very neglectfully received. She sprang down more readily than Dick, and standing on the horse-block, lifted down little Clare.
“Hallo!” said Dick, by way of ringing the bell.
A slight stir was heard through the open door, and a young woman appeared, fresh-looking and smiling-faced.
“Mistress Polwhele, I reckon?” she asked. “An’ is this t’ little lass? Eh, God bless thee, little lass! Come in—thou’rt bound to be aweary.”
Clare looked up into the girl’s pleasant face, and sliding her hand confidingly into hers, said demurely,—“I’ll come.”
“Dick ’ll see to th’ gear, Mistress,” said the girl.
“Thou’d better call Sim, Dick.—I reckon you’d best come wi’ me.”
“What is your name?” asked Barbara, following her guide.