Still unconvinced the London child made no rejoinder.
Mrs. Rowles began to cross to the lock-house by the planks of the lock.
"Come carefully, Juliet, you are not used to this."
Juliet marched across the narrow bridge with firm foot and steady eye. Emily followed nervously.
On the island they found Mr. Rowles; and Philip, who, not meeting his mother on the road from the station, had hurried home again. He and his father stared at Juliet.
"Well, I never!" cried Mr. Rowles. "Whom have we here?"
"Oh, Ned," said his wife soothingly, "it is your own little niece, Juliet Mitchell. I thought you'd like to have her here a bit, seeing as they are none too well off, and she's never been in the real country at all till now."
Rowles whistled doubtfully. He stood there in his shirt sleeves, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and his black straw hat pushed back on his head. His eyes were fixed on his niece's face with a gaze of inquiry, and a sort of dislike seemed to grow up in his heart and in hers.
"Oh, very well," he said, at length. "Where's your box?"