There was no help for it: I had to go up the gloomy avenue alone. It was a broad gravel drive, wide enough for two carriages to pass each other; a thick grove of trees on either side. The road wound round, and I had just got in sight of the house when I was startled considerably by what proved to be a man's head projecting beyond the trees. He appeared to be gazing steadfastly at the house, but turned his face suddenly at my approach. But for that, I might not have observed him. The face looked dark, ugly, menacing; and I started with a spring to the other side of the way. I did not speak to him, or he to me, but my heart beat with fear, and I was glad enough to see lights from several of the windows in front of me. I thought it a very large house; I found afterwards that it contained eighteen rooms, and some of them small: but then we had lived in a pretty cottage of six. There was no need to ring. At the open door stood a man and a maid-servant, laughing and talking. "Who are you?" cried the girl. "I want Mrs. Edwin Barley." "Then I think want must be your master," she returned. "It is somebody from Hallam, I suppose. Mrs. Edwin Barley cannot possibly see you to-night." "You just go away, little girl," added the footman. "You must come to-morrow morning, if you want anything." Their manner was so authoritative that I felt frightened, nearly crying as I stood. What if they should really turn me away! "Why don't you go?" asked the girl, sharply. "I have nowhere to go to. My boxes are down at the gate." "Why, who are you?" she inquired, in a quick tone. "I am Miss Hereford." "Heart alive!" she whispered to the man. "I beg your pardon, Miss. I'll call Charlotte Delves." "What's that? Who will you call?" broke from an angry voice at the back of the hall. "Call 'Charlotte Delves,' will you? Go in to your work this instant, you insolent girl. Do you hear me, Jemima?" "I didn't know you were there, Miss Delves," was the half-saucy, half-deprecating answer. "The young lady has come—Miss Hereford." A tall, slight, good-looking woman of thirty-five or thirty-six came forward. I could not tell whether she was a lady or a smart maid. She wore a small, stylish cap, and a handsome muslin gown with flounces—which were in fashion then. Her eyes were light; long, light curls fell on either side her face, and her address was good. "How do you do, Miss Hereford?" she said, taking my hand. "Come in, my dear. We did not expect you until next week. Mrs. Barley is in the drawing-room." "Mrs. Barley is in her chamber, dressing for dinner," contended Jemima, from the back of the hall, as if intent on aggravation. Miss Delves made no reply. She ran upstairs, and opened a door, from whence came a warm glow of fire-light. "Wait there a moment," she said, looking round at me. "Mrs. Edwin Barley, the child has come." "What child?" returned a voice—a young, gay, sweet, voice. "Little Miss Hereford."