"Well, I've no objection, if mother has not," was the answer. "You must ask her leave."
"I expect she will let me come. She is sure to have some shopping to do; and you don't like commissions at shops, daddy."
The squire gave a significant shrug of his broad shoulders, and then the two began to thread their way through the copse, and came out at last on the side of the grass-covered hill, up which Joyce skipped with the light step of a young fawn, with Nip and Pip scuffling along with her in the highest glee, while the squire and Duke followed more slowly.
As she stood there in the light of the morning, Joyce Falconer was a fair picture of happy, joyous maidenhood. Her figure was lithe and supple, and though I am afraid her lilac cotton frock would be despised as only fit for a maid-servant in these days, it became her well. It was made with a full skirt and a loose body, cut rather low at the neck, with sleeves which were large on the shoulder, gradually tightening to the wrist, and displayed to advantage a well-rounded arm. Joyce's shoes were thick; but though, perhaps, a trifle clumsy, they did not spoil the symmetry of her pretty ankle and high-arched instep. Snowy "tuckers" of crimped muslin were sewn into the neck and wrists of her gown, and she wore an apron with a bib; an old-fashioned apron, guiltless of bows or lace.
Her abundant chestnut hair was gathered on the top of her small head, and fell in curls on either side of her smooth white brow; not concealed now by the large Dunstable straw bonnet, which was hanging to her arm by the strings, and left the gentle breeze of the morning free, to play amongst the clustering curls, at their own sweet will.
Joyce's features were regular, and her complexion rosy and healthy. Indeed, everything about her seemed to tell of youth and the full enjoyment of the gifts which God had given her.
"A perfect little rustic!" her aunt in the Vicar's close at Wells called her sometimes, and would suggest to her father that a year or two at a "finishing school" would be an advantage.
But the squire could not bring himself to part from his only daughter, and her education had been, I am afraid, sadly neglected.
"Well, little one," Mr. Falconer said, as he seated himself on a rough wooden bench, "what is this?" touching the cover of a book that peeped from her apron pocket.
"It is a book, father, Charlotte lent me: Mrs. Hemans' poems."