'The young people wish to go round by the low road,' I said, 'but I'm afraid there may be some difficulties made about it.' I hesitated and smiled at her, adding, 'It's not much farther, is it?'
'Happen four mile or so, ma'am,' she said, looking hard at me.
'Four? As much as that?' I asked.
'Happen three mile, maybe,' she corrected; 'no, two and a half.'
Here Sir Archibald came out to inquire about the distance. He looked up at the grey skies first, and seemed uncertain.
'How much farther do you call it by the low road to Grey Tor?' he asked.
'Close on two mile, sir,' she mumbled shamelessly, and Sir Archibald hesitated no longer.
'Two miles of level are better than half a mile of precipice. I vote for the longer road, Miss Pomeroy,' he said, on going back into the parlour.
Virginia nodded and smiled. She was sitting at the old, tinny-sounding spinet, singing the most beautiful little wandering airs that might have been learned in fairyland.
Suddenly she drifted into a plaintive melody we had not heard before, and when we had succumbed to its spell she began singing some words I had found in my dear mother's diary. I had given the verses to Virginia, and she had set them to an air of her own. It is a part of her charm that she sings sad songs as if she had never felt joy, and gay ones as if she had never known care or sorrow.