Chris had the wisdom to murmur, “Yes, mamma,” and then to say nothing more except a few comments on the street through which they were passing. She was dreading the reception they would meet with at the hands of the justly-offended owner of Wyngham House. For the first time she realised the disagreeable nature of their position, the fact that they came, not as visitors, but as hired dependents on the good pleasure of a stranger, who could, if he chose, even send them about their business with the curt intimation that their services would not be wanted. To dispel these gloomy thoughts, or, at least, to prevent her mother from guessing what troubled her, Chris looked about her as they drove along. She saw, in the first place, that Wyngham was a garrison town, for the red coats of soldiers made pleasant spots of colour in the straight, narrow old street. This street changed gradually in character, until the shops and inns gave place to houses of a more or less modern type; and, at last, these dwellings came to an abrupt end on one side of the road, and there was nothing but a strip of waste land, and a strip beyond that of sharply shelving beach, between them and the sea. Chris, straining her eyes in the darkness, could see lights twinkling on the ships as they passed, and she gave a cry of delight. She had lived near the sea at one time, for Mrs. Abercarne had had a house at Southsea in her more prosperous days. But it was some years since that bright period was over, and Chris had grown reconciled to the fogs of London since then. The sight, and the smell of the sea filled her with vivid sensations of pleasure. She remembered the bright sun and the breezy walks, and her heart seemed to rise at a bound, only to sink the next moment with the despairing thought that her mother had made their stay in this delightful place impossible. The same thought may have crossed her mother’s mind also, for Mrs. Abercarne made no comment on her daughter’s exclamations of pleasure, but sat in silence for the rest of the drive. Wyngham House was a little way out of the town, and was so close to the sea, that the ocean looked, as Chris afterwards expressed it, like a lake in the grounds. It was approached from the inland side by a short carriage drive, and was surrounded by grounds of some natural beauty, but of no great pretension. The house, which was built in the Italian style, and painted white, was large and rather pretty. It was approached by a porch in which, as the carriage drove up, a man-servant, in livery, was waiting to receive the new arrivals. Chris peeped about anxiously for the master of the house, and even Mrs. Abercarne betrayed to her daughter’s eyes certain signs of nervous apprehension. But there was no one to be seen except the respectful and stolid-looking butler, and a neat housemaid, who was waiting inside the entrance hall to show them upstairs.