"What is to be done? What is to be done, Joyce?" Mrs. Falconer said.
"We must consult Mr. Paget, dear mother. Oh! how glad I was when you came; he is such a bold, bad man."
"Poor child! Poor Sunshine!" Mrs. Falconer said; "I have been very much to blame to leave you all the burden; I will try to do differently now. Kiss me, Joyce."
"And here is a carriage coming up the road," was Piers' next exclamation; "a carriage full of people."
"Oh! there is an old gentleman in a wig and shovel hat, and—"
"It must be the Bishop," exclaimed Mrs. Falconer; "what shall we do?"
It was too late for Mrs. Falconer to retreat, for the carriage had driven up before the door, and the footman had the handle of the bell in his hand.
"The Lord Bishop," he said, addressing Piers, "Mrs. Arundel, and Miss Anson. Is Mrs. Falconer at home?"
And now Joyce advanced out of the shadow, and stood under the roses by the porch.
The late encounter with Lord Maythorne had heightened her colour, and tears were still upon her long lashes—the tears of vexation she had tried so hard to keep back.