Her account finished, Robin smiled bravely back into the grave face, with that enchanting tenderness which had won Cornelius Allendyce and enticed him to strange deeds.
The smile worked its spell at least on the dog for he moved slowly over to her, lifted a big paw and placed it gravely upon her shoulder.
"Cæsar declares you a friend," said the woman in a slow, low-pitched voice. "He does not welcome many into our seclusion. Please sit down. Brina, bring these young ladies a pitcher of milk and some cookies."
Brina swung out of the room at her mistress' bidding. Robin, uncomfortable but immensely curious and excited, sat on the edge of the settle and chattered, while Beryl, well behind their silent hostess, made mysterious signs with fingers and lips and eyes.
"We think this is the loveliest spot—the old town and the mill and this lane—and all. No one would ever dream from the road that this house was here. Has it a name? First I called it the House of Bread and Cake and Sugar—like the fairy story, but it ought to be called the House of Rushing Waters, hadn't it?"
"That will do—very nicely. No, no one would know from the road that the house stands here."
But when Robin ventured: "Aren't you ever lonely?" there was a perceptible tightening of the lips that made her sorry she had asked it.
"Robin, there's something funny about that whole place," declared Beryl, half-an-hour later as they went back down the lane. "I was doing some thinking while you were talking."
"She's a dear old lady, Beryl. I feel sorry for her."
"Oh, yes, dear enough. I thought she was stand-offish. But you don't think for a moment she belongs 'round here, in the same town with that old cheese down at the store?"