The Heiress of Wyvern Court | Page 5

station? Yes,
she had a trunk there; and an unknown Will--at least, unknown to
Inna--was despatched for it.
"But maybe you'd like some tea?" suggested the housekeeper.
"Yes, I should, please," the little lady assured her, folding her jacket
neatly, as she had been taught.
"Well, they're just having tea in the dining-room. Come along."
No use for Inna to shrink or shiver, for Mrs. Grant was leading the way
to those unknown tea-drinkers of whom she was to form one; the
fire-light from the kitchen showing them the way along a passage. Then
a door was opened, and the small shiverer thrust in, not unkindly, with
the words--

"A little lady come for a bit and a sup with you, sir."
Then the door closed, and she was in another fire-lit room. A lamp, too,
burnt on a table in front of a wood fire, on which was laid a quaint
old-fashioned tea equipage, with a hissing urn, and all complete. On the
hearth knelt a lad, making toast; and by his side, leaning against the
mantelpiece, was a tall man--red-haired, with streaks of grey in that of
both head and closely-clipped beard. He had keen grey eyes, which
seemed to scan Inna through; a small mouse-like figure by the door,
afraid to advance.
"Oscar, where are your manners?" asked the gentleman, "to treat a lady
in this way, when she's thrust upon you?"
Thrust: here was another word which seemed to say she was not
welcome.
"I beg your pardon," lisped the child, thinking she ought to speak.
"No, no; a lady is very like a king--she never does wrong or needs
pardon; 'tis this great lout of a boy here that is the aggressor."
Whereupon the somewhat awkward, shy lad on the hearth laid down
knife and toasting-fork, and came towards her.
"Well, whoever you are, will you please sit here?" said he, setting her a
chair by the table, and taking another himself behind the urn.
"With a lady in the room, you'll never do that," said the gentleman,
spying comically at him from where he still stood on the hearth, as the
boy began to brew the tea.
"Oh no, thank you; I couldn't manage the urn," said Inna.
"I thought not," growled Oscar, a big, handsome, fair-haired boy of
eleven, with grey-blue eyes. "And now, here I am without a cup for
you."
Inna had not taken the seat he offered her by the table, but had glided

round to the gentleman on the hearth. Oscar made a bolt from the room
to fetch a cup and saucer.
"Won't you say you will like to have me here, Uncle--Uncle Jonathan?"
she asked hesitatingly. Such a mite she was, glancing up at the tall
red-haired gentleman turning grey, such blushes coming and going in
her cheeks.
"My dear little lady, I think you're just the one element wanting in our
male community: a little girl in our midst will save us from settling
down into the savages we're fast becoming," replied the gentleman,
glancing down in an amused way at her from his superior height.
"Well, isn't that welcome enough?" he asked, still with that comical
smile, as Inna gave a puzzled glance at him, as if not quite
comprehending his high talk, and fumbling in her dress pocket.
"I have a letter that will tell you all about me--why I've come, you
know," said she.
"Ah yes, Dr. Willett's letter," he remarked, taking the missive from her
and balancing it between his finger and thumb. Just then Oscar came
back with a rush.
"I know all about you, and who you are," said he, putting down the cup
and saucer he had brought with a clatter. "You're a sort of half-cousin
of mine, and a great-niece of Uncle Jonathan's," he blurted out.
"Well, since you know so much, suppose you come here and enlighten
your new half-cousin as to who I am. She has mistaken me for her
uncle--and naturally too, since you, as host for the time being, were
rude enough not to introduce us."
At this reproach Oscar left his tea-making, and approached the two:
Inna with burning cheeks, at her mistake about this unknown
gentleman, not her uncle.
"Well, this is Mr. Barlow--Dr. Barlow, some people call him, but he's

no such thing; he's a surgeon, and the one who plays David to Uncle
Jonathan--you understand?" questioned the boy, with humour sparkling
in his blue-grey eyes.
"Yes," nodded Inna shyly; "his very dear friend, you mean."
"Yes, that's about the figure," was the response, while the two bowed
with ceremony.
"And now, I am--tell Mr. Barlow who I am, please," pleaded the small
maiden.
"Well, this is Miss Inna Weston, the daughter of a certain Mercy
Willett, niece of Jonathan Willett, Doctor, who lived