There were plenty of lap blankets and traveling rugs, and Lally rolled herself snugly in a corner, and rubbing a spot on the window glass, tried to look out into the streets as they passed. Mrs. Peters also rolled herself up comfortably, and was silent.
The estate of Heather Hills was situated on the coast, between Fort George and Nairn—much nearer to Nairn in fact, than to Inverness—but the drive was pleasant in good weather, and the late Mrs. Wroat had always proceeded by carriage from Inverness, a good and sufficient reason why her successor should do so.
The house at Heather Hills was old and picturesque, with a lofty tower that commanded a fine view of Moray Frith. It was of mixed styles of architecture, and was home-like, while it was imposing. The estate took its name from a low range of hills covered with heather, which formed a portion of its boundaries; but these hills were at a considerable distance from the house, which stood upon a tall and naked bluff, overlooking the Frith.
In summer the house was fanned with the salt sea-breezes, making it a delightful retreat. Seen, however, through a Scotch mist upon a day in late October, under a frowning sky, and with the dreariness of coming winter already apparent in the grounds, it was not so delightful. It looked cold, wind-swept, and deserted, to Lally, as she lowered her window and took a survey of her domain.
Around the house was a wide and fine lawn dotted with trees. There were flower-gardens, and the usual appanages to a fine country seat; but Lally’s regards were fixed upon the mansion, which, wrapped in gray mist, seemed to its new owner one of the grandest as well as one of the loveliest houses she had ever seen.
The carriage passed up the long winding drive and halted in the wide porch. Toppen sprang nimbly down from the box, threw off his Mackintosh, and opened the coach door, assisting its occupants to alight.
Then he flung open the house door and led the way up the steps into the great hall, while the carriage went around to the stables.
In the wide hall the steward and his wife were waiting, to welcome the new owner of Heather Hills.
The former was a hale, sandy-haired Scotsman, with a plain honest face. The latter was a broad-faced motherly Scots-woman, who fell in love with the young mistress of the house at first sight.
“Miss Wroat,” said Peters, “these are Mr. and Mrs. Lang, the steward and his wife.”