"Bless you, child, he never knew lord nor lady!" replied Priscilla, recovering her breath somewhat—"No—it's more likely one o' they grand folks what likes to buy old furniture, an' mebbe somebody's told 'er about Briar Farm things, an' 'ow they might p'raps be sold now the master's gone—"
"But that would be very silly and wicked talk," said Innocent. "Nothing will be sold—Robin would never allow it—"
"Well, come an' see the lady," and Priscilla hurried her along—"She said she wished to see you partikler. I told 'er the master was dead, an' onny buried this mornin', an' she smiled kind o' pleasant like, an' said she was sorry to have called on such an unfortunate day, but her business was important, an' if you could see 'er—"
"Is she young?"
"No, she's not young—but she isn't old," replied Priscilla—"She's wonderful good-looking an' dressed beautiful! I never see such clothes cut out o' blue serge! An' she's got a scent about her like our stillroom when we're makin' pot-purry bags for the linen."
By this time they had reached the house, and Innocent went straight into the best parlour. Her unexpected and unknown visitor stood there near the window, looking out on the beds of flowers, but turned round as she entered. For a moment they confronted each other in silence,—Innocent gazing in mute astonishment and enquiry at the tall, graceful, self-possessed woman, who, evidently of the world, worldly, gazed at her in turn with a curious, almost quizzical interest. Presently she spoke in a low, sweet, yet cold voice.
"So you are Innocent!" she said.
The girl's heart beat quickly,—something frightened her, though she knew not what.
"Yes," she answered, simply—"I am Innocent. You wished to see me—?"
"Yes—I wished to see you,"—and the lady quietly shut the window—"and I also wish to talk to you. In case anyone may be about listening, will you shut the door?"