The Heiress of Wyvern Court | Page 4

dot in the evening sunshine.
Well, she took her three turnings to the right, and they brought her to the farm, lying not far up the last lane; the farm-buildings--barn, stable, and a whole clump of outbuildings--lying back from the road a little, and all lit up by the last rays of sunset. The house looked out upon the lane, where the shadows were gathering fast, under the many-tinted elm trees overshadowing it. Three spotlessly white steps led up to the front door, a strip of green turf lying each side, enclosed by green iron railings, and shut in by a little green gate. A quaint old house it was, with many crooks, corners, and gables, and small lattice diamond-paned windows, through one of which gleamed the ruddy glow of a fire. Ah! the air was crisp, the sun well-nigh gone, the evening creeping on. Inna sighed, and, tripping through the little green gate, mounted the three white steps, and, by dint of straining, reached up, and knocked with the knocker almost as loudly as a timid mouse. But it brought an answer, in the shape of a middle-aged woman, in a brown stuff gown, white apron and cap, dainty frillings of lace encircling her face. A sober face it was, yet kindly, peering down in astonishment at our small heroine, standing silent there among the deepening shadows in the crisp chilly air.
"Well, dearie, what is it?" she questioned, as the child opened her lips to speak, and said nothing.
"I'm Inna: please may I come in and tell you all about it?" asked the silvery tongue then.
"Yes, of course--that is, if you have anything to tell;" and with this the woman made way for the little girl to pass her, and shut the door.
"This way," she said; and that was to the kitchen.
Such a clean, cheery, comfortable place, with its wood fire filling it with ruddy glow and warmth, which was like a silent welcome.
"Now, who's ill and wants a doctor? Sick folks' messengers shouldn't lag," said the woman, scanning her visitor as they both stood in the firelight glow.
"Oh, nobody is ill; and I only--I mean--I don't know where to begin," was the bewildering answer.
"Well, of course you know what brought you," suggested the other.
"Oh, the train brought me; and I've come to stay here."
"You have?" asked the woman.
"Yes; because Uncle Jonathan gave mamma a home once, when she was a little girl; and she said he would me, if she sent me."
"And who are you? and who's your mamma?"
"I'm Inna; and mamma is Uncle Jonathan's niece."
"You aren't Miss Mercy's daughter?" said the woman.
"Yes, I'm Miss Mercy's daughter; and now, please, may I sit down?" asked the little tired voice.
"Yes, poor little unwelcome lamb; I'll not be the one to deny that to Miss Mercy's daughter. Come here;" and she set her own cushioned rocking-chair forward on the hearth. "But where is Miss Mercy? and why did she send you here?"
"Mamma is gone abroad with papa. Some people are afraid he's dying; and"--Inna's heart was full--"I've a letter in my pocket for Uncle Jonathan, to tell him all about it."
"Well, well, this will be news for master--unwelcome news, I'm thinking," muttered the woman as to herself, but speaking aloud.
"Do you mean I shan't be welcome?" asked a strained little voice from the rocking-chair.
"Well, dearie, welcome or not, here you are, and here you must stay for to-night, at any rate. You see, Dr. Willett has one child on his hands already, and he's a handful. I doubt if he'll want another. But then, we must all have what we don't want sometimes--eh, miss?"
To this Inna sighed a troubled little "Yes."
Then Mrs. Grant--for she it was--bethought her to help her off with her jacket and hat, and inquired had she any belongings at the 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