Completely tired with her day’s exertions, was Annet, for she had been making good things for the morrow, and now sat down for the first time that day in the parlour—a low room, with its windows open to the clustering roses, and the furniture bright and tasty. Annet was of middle height, light and active, with a delicate colour on her cheeks, soft brown eyes, and small features. She had just changed her cotton gown for one of pink summer muslin, and looked as fresh as a daisy.
“How tired I am!” she exclaimed to herself, with a smile. “Frank would scold me if he knew it.”
“Be you ready for supper, ma’am?” asked a servant, putting in her head at the door. The only maid kept: for both Frank and his wife knew that their best help to getting on was economy.
“Not yet, Sally. I shall wait for your master.”
“Well, I’ve put it on the table, ma’am; and I’m just going to step across now to Hester Bitton’s, and tell her she’ll be wanted here to-morrow.”
Annet went into the porch, and stood there looking out for her husband, shading her eyes with her hand from the red glare. Some business connected with stock took him to Worcester that day, and he had started in the early morning; but Annet had expected him home earlier than this.
There he was, riding down the road at a sharpish trot; Annet heard the horse’s hoofs before she saw him. He waved his hand to her in the distance, and she fluttered her white handkerchief back again. Thorpe, the indoor man, appeared to take the horse.
Francis Radcliffe had been changing for the better during the past twelvemonth. Regular habits and regular hours, and a mind healthily occupied, had done great things for him. His face was bright, his blue eyes were clear, and his smile and his voice were alike cheering as he got off the horse and greeted his wife.
“You are late, Frank! It is ever so much past eight.”
“Our clocks are fast: I’ve found that out to-day, Annet, But I could not get back before.”