"Yes. If you spent your life straw-plaiting in one of these cottages you would be excited if a stranger went by. It would be kinder of you if you did not walk so fast."
"No, no," said Harding, quickening his steps. "I don't profess philanthropy."
"Besides, you are not altogether a stranger," she went on. "I dare say they think you are one of the old family come to buy up the property."
"Why should they think anything of the kind?" he demanded incredulously.
"Well, they know you are staying at the Place. Every child in the street knows that. And, you see, Mr. Harding, nobody comes to Mitchelhurst without some special reason, so perhaps they have a right to be curious. I remember how they stared a few months ago—it was at a gentleman who was just walking down the road——"
"Indeed," said Harding. "And what was his special reason for coming? I suppose," he added quickly, "I've as good a right to be curious as other Mitchelhurst people."
"Oh, I don't know. He was a friend of Uncle Herbert's—he came to see him."
"And did he walk slowly from motives of pure kindness?" the young man persisted.
"Yes," said Barbara defiantly. "He stood stock still and looked at the straw plaiting. I don't know about the kindness; perhaps he liked it."
"Well, I don't like it."