So Dalabey hurried off to spread the news through Little Stretton. Beaming with joy he was, as he cycled down the road.
"Ah, Mrs. Hanson, there you be, Ma'am!" he shouted, slowing down by the little cottage. "News I've got for 'ee and for that little gel o' thine!"
"News—hev the American——"
"No, ma'am, he hasn't! Why, my maid, what be the matter wi' 'ee?" Dalabey added, for he had caught sight of Betty's blooming face in the window.
And a pretty picture the girl made, her sweet face framed in the clinging greenery and the roses on the point of breaking into bloom, but the sweetest rose of all was there in the window.
"Fair joyous you do look," said Dalabey, "joyous be the word, all bubbling over wi' delight—and yet—you cannot have heard the news of the selling yet?"
"The—the selling—Mr. Dalabey, not—not the selling of—my—of—oh you said—the American hasn't bought——"
"Homewood Manor be sold, sold by I, this very day, Mrs. Hanson, sold by I within the hour!" He rubbed his big red hands, "and a fair price, yes I'll admit, a fair price as things go—but sold it be, sold and done for, but not to the American gentleman—Why, Mrs. Hanson, what be the matter wi' that gel o' thine?"
For Betty had gone white, white as death, and the joy had gone out of her face and her little red lips dragged down pitifully and into her blue eyes had come tears, tears which all unnoticed trickled down her pale cheeks.
"Fair daft that maid be about that old garden!" said Mrs. Hanson. "And glad I be, Mr. Dalabey, as the place be sold, and put to orders, I hope it'll be, so this maid of mine will go no more roamin' where her haven't no business to be!"