“I expected—to see a friend here,” she answered timidly; “and—and you are Mrs. Tarnley—I think?”
“I’m the person,” answered the woman.
“And I was told to show you this—and that you would admit me.”
And she handed her, through the iron bars of the window, a little oval picture in a shagreen case, hardly bigger than a pennypiece.
The old lady turned it to the light and looked hard at it, saying, “Ay—ay—my old eyes—they won’t see as they used to—but it is so—the old missus—yes—it’s all right, Miss,” and she viewed the young lady with some curiosity, but her tones were much more respectful as she handed her back the miniature.
“I’ll open the door, please ’m.”
And almost instantly Miss Maybell heard the bolts withdrawn.
“Would you please to walk in—my lady? I can only bring ye into the kitchen. The apples is in the parlour, and the big room’s full o’ straw—and the rest o’ them is locked up. It’ll be Master I know who ye’ll be looking arter?”
The young lady blushed deeply—the question was hardly shaped in the most delicate way.
“There was a woman in a barooche, I think they call it, asking was any one here, and asking very sharp after Master, and I told her he wasn’t here this many a day, nor like to be—and ’twas that made me a bit shy o’ you; you’ll understand, just for a bit.”