"Yes, at a little distance; and we can go very near to it by taking the road across the common," and he indicated the direction. "That is the place, with all those cherry trees," he continued, pointing toward the unpretentious house where Miss Betsey McPherson had lived for so many years, and where she now sat upon the piazza, with Hannah Jerrold at her side.
Miss Betsey had been in Boston for two weeks, and had only returned home that morning, finding Bessie's letter of thanks, written so long ago and not forwarded to her until one of the firm in London heard of Archie's death. This letter she had read with a great feeling of pity for and yearning toward the young girl who had written it.
"I wish I had sent her more, and I will by and by," she thought, never dreaming that Archie was dead, or that his wife was so near.
She had not even heard of the arrival in New York of the Brownes, and was talking with Hannah Jerrold, who had come over to see her, when the carriage containing Mr. and Mrs. Browne, Augusta and Lord Hardy, came into view across the common.
"Why, that's the Brownes!" she exclaimed. "Are they home? and who is that tow-headed chap with them? Not Allen, surely?"
Hannah explained that the Brownes were expected that afternoon, and that an Irish lord was coming with them, and that half Ridgeville had gone to the station to meet them.
"Irish fiddlesticks! After Augusta's money, of course," Miss Betsey returned, with a snort, but whatever else she might have said was cut short by the appearance of the phaeton with Allen and Daisy in it.
"I wonder who she is. I hope she stares well. Seems to me I have seen her before," Miss Betsey said, adding, as Daisy half inclined her head, and smiled upon her, "Who can she be? Somebody they have picked up to make a splurge with. A widow, at any rate."
"Oh, yes, I remember now to have heard from the cook at Ridge House that an English lady was to accompany the family home, and—yes, her name was McPherson, too—Lady McPherson, the cook called her. This is she, no doubt."
"Lady McPherson," Miss Betsey repeated "There is no Lady McPherson except my brother's wife, Lady Jane, and she is almost as dried up and yellow by this time as I am, while this lady is young, and—good gracious! It is she! The Jezebel! Lady McPherson indeed!" and Miss Betsey sprang to her feet so energetically as to startle her visitor, who had no idea what she meant.