"Why don't you go?" asked the girl, sharply.
"I have nowhere to go to. My boxes are down at the gate."
"Why, who are you?" she inquired, in a quick tone.
"I am Miss Hereford."
"Heart alive!" she whispered to the man. "I beg your pardon, Miss. I'll call Charlotte Delves."
"What's that? Who will you call?" broke from an angry voice at the back of the hall. "Call 'Charlotte Delves,' will you? Go in to your work this instant, you insolent girl. Do you hear me, Jemima?"
"I didn't know you were there, Miss Delves," was the half-saucy, half-deprecating answer. "The young lady has come—Miss Hereford."
A tall, slight, good-looking woman of thirty-five or thirty-six came forward. I could not tell whether she was a lady or a smart maid. She wore a small, stylish cap, and a handsome muslin gown with flounces—which were in fashion then. Her eyes were light; long, light curls fell on either side her face, and her address was good.
"How do you do, Miss Hereford?" she said, taking my hand. "Come in, my dear. We did not expect you until next week. Mrs. Barley is in the drawing-room."
"Mrs. Barley is in her chamber, dressing for dinner," contended Jemima, from the back of the hall, as if intent on aggravation.