“Who was that?”
“The voice,” said Ally, “in the street—‘How d’ye do?’”
“It was the rector—who else should it be? Do you mean to say you did not see him going along the road?”
“No, I did not see him,” said Ally, with that dreamy, imbecile sort of smile. She had seen nothing, noticed Nothing! And the rector had taken it for granted that the greeting had been for himself, and thought young Walter was very civil: and all had passed over with perfect safety, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. Walter fell back into the other corner, and thus the brother and sister swung and jolted along, each in a beatitude and agitation of his (and her) own. Perhaps there was a subtle sort of sympathy in the silence. They did not say anything to each other until they had turned in at the gates, and were stumbling along the avenue at Penton under the pine-trees, all bare and moaning. This roused them instinctively, although their dreams were more absorbing than anything else in earth or heaven.
“Here we are at last,” said Ally, rousing herself, but speaking under her breath.
“Not yet; don’t you know the avenue is nearly a mile long? And don’t be frightened—remember what mother said.”
“Oh, not frightened,” she cried, but caught her breath a little. “Wat, I wish it was over, and we were going home.”
“So do I, Ally; but we must go through with it now we are here.”
“Oh, I suppose so. Will she be waiting at the door, do you think, or come to meet us? or will they tell us she is out, and offer to show us our rooms, and send us tea?”