"Fourteen!" I exclaimed in surprise.
"I was fourteen in January. Mamma says I ought not to tell people my age, for they will only think me more childish; but papa says I may tell everyone."
She was in truth a child for her years; especially as age is now considered. She ran about, showing me everything, her frock, her curls, her eyes dancing: from the aviary to the fowls, from the fowls to the flowers: all innocent objects of her daily pleasures, innocent and guileless as she herself.
A smart-looking maid, with red ringlets flowing about her red cheeks, and wide cap-strings flowing behind them, came up.
"Why, here you are!" she exclaimed. "I've been looking all about for you, Miss Annabel. Your mamma says you are to come in."
"We are coming, Hatch; we were turning at that moment," answered the child. "Is coffee ready?"
"Yes, Miss Annabel, and waiting."
In the evening we went to church, the servants following at some distance. Afterwards we had tea, and then I rose to depart. Mr. Brightman walked with me across the lawn, and we had almost reached the iron gates when there came a sound of swift steps behind us.
"Papa! papa! Is he gone? Is Mr. Strange gone?"
"What is the matter now?" asked Mr. Brightman.