Then she packed her two small trunks and said good-bye to sturdy Tom O’Hara, who said the farm would miss her sadly.
“But it is not the place for a lady like you, Miss Standen. My mother was next door to being one, as you know, and even she detested farm life. It was better for you when she was here. Now you will go among your own people, I hope. I wish I could tell you who they are, but my mother kept her knowledge—if she had any—to herself.”
“Thank you,” she said, sadly. “I do not know where I am going when I leave Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne. I expect that I am quite alone in the world, otherwise my people could hardly have left me without any sign all these years.”
“If it comes to that, Miss Standen,” and the big fellow strode hastily across the room to her, “the farm’s a home to you whenever you like to make use of it. Maggie’s a good girl, and she would feel honoured by your staying here.”
“I thank you Tom most warmly,” giving him both her hands. “You are a kind hearted man, and I shall never forget your generosity. But I intend to go to London to make my living there.
“I have made some enquiries, and my voice ought to do something for me. Mr. Gascoigne will always have my address, and he will give me news of you now and then. Good-bye, I must not keep your horse waiting any longer.”
“I am going to drive you myself, Miss Standen, if you will allow me. It will be the last time.”
“Well, well, my dear, there is no immediate hurry. You have scarcely been with us two days. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Gascoigne and myself would be only too glad if you could make up your mind to remain with us altogether, but I suppose you are tired of the country.”
“You beggar me of gratitude,” she said, flushing. “I have not the slightest claim upon you and you treat me like a daughter—almost.”