“My sister is so nervous,” exclaimed Miss Susan, “and I don’t think she will use the car as much as she supposes. Even in a cab she sits all the time with her eyes closed and her hands clenched. She would never have purchased the motor, only our brother-in-law, the parson here--who is rather a wag in his way--chaffed her, and, just to contradict him, she bought one within a week!” Miss Susan was evidently a talker, and Wynyard listened in civil silence as, chattering incessantly, she accompanied him down the drive and out into the village street. “Now I am going to take you to your lodgings, where I hope you will be comfortable,” and she looked at him with a kindly little smile. “There is where we lived for thirty years,” pointing to a pretty old red cottage, with a paved walk through a charming garden--at present gay with daffodils and crocus. “Do you know I planted every one of those bulbs myself,” she said; “I’m a great gardener--my sister only potters. The gardens at the Manor have run to seed like the house, and it will take a long time to put them straight. After we left it, on my father’s death, the tenant was a farmer, and only lately my sister has bought it back. A relative we never saw left Bella all his fortune, and money comes just a _little_ strange to her at first. We have always been poor--and so sometimes she--is----” Miss Susan faltered, blushed, and came to a full stop; she felt conscious that she was forgetting herself, and talking to this stranger--a man-servant--as if he were her equal! Her tongue always ran away with her; unfortunately, she could not help it, and it was absolutely true, as Bella repeatedly told her, “she was _much_ too familiar with the lower orders!” “Ahem! I dare say you will find Ottinge dull after London. Do you know London?” she inquired, after a conscious silence. “Yes, miss, I know it well.” “There’s no one much of your stamp in the village; they are all Ottinge born and bred, and you seem to be a superior sort of young man.” “I don’t think I’m at all superior, miss; anyway, I’ve got to earn my bread the same as other people.” “Here we are at Mrs. Hogben’s,” she announced, and, opening a gate, walked up the flagged path leading to an old two-storeyed cottage, and a broadly built, elderly woman, with a keen, eager face and a blue checked apron, came to meet them, hastily wiping her wet hands. “Here is your lodger, Mrs. Hogben; his name is Owen,” explained Miss Susan; and Mrs. Hogben’s astonishment was so complete that she so far forgot herself as to drop him half a curtsey. “You have given him the top back-room, I understand?” continued Miss Susan, “and, _remember_, it’s not to be more than half-a-crown a week; he will arrange about his board himself.” “Yes, Miss Susan; to be sure, Miss Susan.” “And you will do his washing moderately, and cook, and make him comfortable, won’t you?” “Of course, Miss Susan.” “I don’t suppose you will eat meat more than once a day,” turning to him, “eh?”