"Well," after the usual efforts to disinter—or disembowel—the silver watch, "it's certainly just ten."
"And by the time Tom's put the shutters up, she'll be here!" cries Mattie; "see if my words don't come true, Mr. Wesden."
"Well, I hope they will; if they don't, I—I think I'll just put on my hat, and walk down to the station."
Presently somebody coming down-stairs with a heavy, regular tread, pausing at the side door in the parlour, and giving two decisive raps with his knuckles on the panels.
"Come in."
Enter Mr. Hinchford, senior, with his white hair rubbed the wrong way, and his florid face looking somewhat anxious.
"Haven't they come yet?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Ah! I suppose not," catching Mattie's glance directed towards him across the needlework which she has resumed again, and at which she is working harder than ever; "there's boxes to find, and pack on the cab, and Miss Harriet's no woman if she do not remember at the last minute something left behind in the carriage."
"Won't you sit down, sir?" asks Mrs. Wesden.