Some twenty minutes Anne had been standing at one of the windows of the morning-room, which being just above the library, commanded a pretty good view down a part of the long avenue, through the branches of the still almost leafless trees.
It was about a month since the eventful evening on which Amy had penned her reply to Anne.
Charles, who had been reading, suddenly rose, and threw his book, with a gesture of weariness, on the table.
"Are you going out?" asked Frances, laying her embroidery in her lap, as he rose.
"Yes; it's close upon half-past four, and I shall just get a stroll before dinner; the book has made me stupid."
"So has my embroidery. I think I will go with you, if you will let me."
"You!" exclaimed Anne, from her distant post, ever ready to knock on the head any chance that drew the two together; "why your feet in their dainty boots would get soaked through and through, and you catch your death of cold. Do not encourage such self-immolation, Charles."
"Yes," laughed Charles, "your town-made boots, Frances, were never made or intended for country wear. Anne's are, at least, an inch thick, and wade through any amount of mud or dirt: so if either of you come, it must be Anne."
"I should say Anne would be a lively companion," retorted Frances, savagely. "I suppose by this time she could tell us how many drops of rain fall in a minute, and how many rooks have perched on the trees during the last half-hour."
"I wish one of the rooks would fly and bring me the letter from Miss Neville that I have been expecting, and have been looking out for all the afternoon."