She followed the pack-horse road beyond the lonnin that turned up to Shoulthwaite, and stopped at the gate of the cottage that stood by the smithy near the bridge. Without wavering for an instant, without the quivering of a single muscle, she opened the gate and walked up to the door.
“Mrs. Garth,” she called.
A young girl came out. She was a neighbor's daughter.
“Why, she's away, Rotha, Mistress Garth is,” said the little lassie.
“Away, Bessy?” said Rotha, entering the house and seating herself. “Do you know where she's gone?”
“Nay, that I don't; but she told mother she'd be away three or four days.”
“So you're minding house for her,” said Rotha vacantly, her eyes meantime busily traversing the kitchen; they came back to the little housekeeper's face in a twinkling.
“Deary me, what a pretty ribbon that is in your hair, Bessy. Do you know it makes you quite smart. But it wants just a little bow like this—there, there.”
The guileless child blushed and smiled, and sidled slyly up to where she could catch a sidelong glance at herself in a scratched mirror that hung against the wall.
“Tut, Bessy, you should go and kneel on the river bank just below, and look at yourself in the still water. Go, lass, and come back and tell me what you think now.”