“Why, Lizzie!—it’s never you!” exclaimed Harriet, after an amazed stare at the visitor.
“Yes, it’s me. I thought I’d come over and see you. That old man was polite though, to leave me standing here.”
“But where have you come from? And why are you so late?”
“Oh, I’m staying at Brighton; came down on the spree yesterday. I’m late because I lost my way on this precious moor—or whatever it calls itself—and got a mile, or so, too far. When the snow came on—and ain’t it getting deep!—I turned into a house to shelter a bit, and here I am. A man that was coming out of church yonder directed me to the place here.”
She must have been at The Sheaf o’ Corn. What if she had chanced to ask the route of me!
“You got my letter, then, telling you I had left my old place at Worthing, and taken service here,” said Harriet.
“I got it safe enough; it was directed to the Bell-and-Clapper room,” returned Lizzie. “What a stick of a hand you do write! I couldn’t decipher whether your new mistress was Lady Beveen or Lady Beveer. I had thought you never meant to write to me again.”
“Well, you know, Lizzie, that quarrel between us years back, after father and mother died, was a bitter one; but I’m sure I don’t want to be anything but friendly for the future. You haven’t written, either. I never had but that one letter from you, telling me you had got married, and that he was a gentleman.”
“And you wrote back asking whether it was true, or whether I had jumped over the broomstick,” retorted Lizzie, with a laugh. “You always liked to be polite to me, Harriet.”
“Do you ever see Uncle Dyke up in London, Lizzie?”