“Then you haven’t called on the Golds yet,” said Nelly. “Why don’t you go there?”
“The rector has called,” Morgan replied, “and there really is no need for a curate to be thrusting himself into rich folks’ houses unless they are ill.”
“You didn’t mind coming to our house,” rejoined Nelly, “and I daresay we are as rich as the Golds. But you can’t judge of Miss Hazleburn by seeing her in church, Morgan. It is in conversation that you find out how charming she is. And actually there is something in her that reminds me of you! I can’t tell where the resemblance lies—it may be in the voice, or it may be in the face, but I am certain that it exists.”
“It exists only in your imagination,” said Morgan, bent upon changing the subject.
Before Mrs. Gold had entirely recovered, Nelly had got into a habit of running in and out of the house. It was about three-quarters of a mile from her home, and stood on the summit of the green downs which she had loved in her childhood. The garden slanted down from the back of the house to these open downs: it was raised above the slopes and terminated in a gravelled terrace; and so low was this terrace that Nelly could easily climb upon it and go straying into the shrubbery. She had done this dozens of times while Laurel House was empty, for the old garden, with its thick hedges of laurel and yew, had always been a favourite haunt of hers. Finding that the Golds were free-and-easy people, who gladly welcomed the pretty trespasser, she chose to keep up her old custom.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVI.