So so! how impatient
it is!"
For another succession of knocks fell on the panel.
"I entreat you, do not open the door yourself, Betty," cried Mary in a
tone of alarm. "Who knows who may be there?"
"Certainly not Wild Jack," answered Betty smiling, and disengaging
herself from her friend's arm she went forward and opened the gate.
"Does Mr. Ives live here?" asked a loud, clear voice, which, however,
suddenly changed in tone when the opening door disclosed the radiant
vision of the parson's lovely daughter.
A feathered hat was doffed, a gentleman sprang from his horse and,
bowing low, asked if he had the honour of addressing one of the family
of Mr. Ives.
"His only daughter, sir," answered Betty courteously. "If you wish to
see my father, I will beg you to come in and wait, as he will be in
shortly," Mary Jones advanced, her eyes took in at a glance the whole
distinguished appearance of the visitor, from the fine cut of his suit
of claret-coloured cloth, to the well-shaped boot with shining spurs,
and she gave a little sign of approval.
Betty summoned old Isaac and bade him take charge of the horse, and
then led the way into the garden.
"We are primitive folk here," she said. "But I find most people prefer
our garden-seats to entering the house."
Mary was somewhat scandalised, she thought these easy out-door seats a
breach of etiquette in themselves, but she could make no remonstrance
beyond a little tweak at her friend's sleeve.
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