The voice of a girl, clear, musical, and with a touch of masterfulness in it, broke in on the woman’s harsh accents.
“Tibbie! What is it?—who is there?”
The woman frowned. But—involuntarily—she opened the door wider. I saw then that she was standing in a square stone hall of very small dimensions, and that from her right hand stone steps, obviously set in a newel stair, gave access to the upper regions of this queer old place. And I saw more—I saw a pair of slim and shapely ankles, in smart stockings and shoes; the edge of a dainty skirt, and the projection of the stair out of all else.
“It’s a young man, miss, wants to know his way,” said the janitor. “He’s for Wooler, and I’ve told him——”
“For Wooler? In this snow? Impossible, Tibbie! Why——”
The smart shoes suddenly tripped down the stair. Before I could realise my luck their owner was confronting me with curiosity and interest. I suppose I looked pretty forlorn and tramp-like; my water-proof coat was none of the newest, and I was wearing a disreputable, favourite old hat. But I uncovered and made my best bow. And if I stared it was because the light of the old woman’s lamp showed me the prettiest girl I had ever had the good fortune to see. Perhaps, because we were both young, I made bold to smile at her—knowingly.
“You think I shall be—lost in the snow and found dead in the morning?” I suggested.
“That’s precisely what you will be if you try to reach Wooler to-night,” she answered, with some liveliness. “Such a thing’s impossible! even if you knew the way, and I think you don’t. Of course, you must stay here. My guardian, Mr. Parslewe, is out, but——”
“The master is not one for strangers, miss,” interrupted the old woman. “His orders——”
The girl turned on her with a flash of her grey eyes that gave me a good notion of her imperious temper and general masterfulness.