She glanced at him sharply as she pronounced the name, but it did not seem to strike his attention.
“I shall go down there tonight,” he said, eagerly.
“Nonsense!” she replied, with a merry laugh. “You would arrive there in the middle of the night. Wait until the morning train. When you get to The Oaks ask for Mrs. Trueheart. When she comes to you tell her what you want of the maid and you will get your wish.”
He obeyed Lady Westerley’s instructions to the letter. He waited till the morning train. When they reached the station where his journey ended he took a shabby fly to The Oaks.
“The lady of The Oaks must excuse the dust of travel. I am too impatient to linger a moment,” he thought.
They drove several miles through one of the most beautiful estates in the country, and at length drew up before a magnificent abode, one of “The stately homes of England.” He paid the driver and dismissed him.
The sun shone brightly on the terraced walks as he proceeded on his way, but suddenly he came to a dead stop and cried out in surprise.
He had come face to face with a woman and a little boy—a lad with a handsome, spirited face, blue eyes, and chestnut curls. It struck him as strangely familiar.
“Phebe, what are you doing here?” he exclaimed in wonder.
It was the maid whom he had discharged at Louise Barry’s instigation. She had not forgotten her wrongs, for she answered, sullenly, as soon as she recognized him: