“My lord,” said a quick, thin voice, which in its blending of the characteristics of youth and age matched strangely with the speaker's aspect, “this tenement and its surrounding grounds are my freehold. I cannot permit your lordship to lay a mutilating hand upon them.” “God bless my soul!” said his lordship. “That's Rachel Blythe! That must be Rachel Blythe.” “Rachel Blythe at your lordship's service,” said the little old lady. She dropped a curt little courtesy, at once as young and as old as everything about her, and stood looking up at him, with drooping hands crossed upon the garden shears. “God bless my soul! Dear me!” said his lordship. “Dear me! God bless my soul!” He came slowly down the ladder and, surrendering his billhook to Joseph, advanced and proffered a tremulous white hand. Miss Blythe accepted it with a second curt little courtesy, shook it once up and down and dropped it. “Welcome back to Heydon Hay, Miss Blythe,” said the old nobleman, with something of an air of gallantry. “You have long deprived us of your presence.” Perhaps Miss Blythe discerned a touch of badinage in his tone, and construed it as a mockery. She drew up her small figure in exaggerated dignity, and made much such a motion with her head and neck as a hen makes in walking. “I have long been absent from Heydon Hay, my lord,” she answered. “My good man,” turning upon Joseph, “you may remove that ladder. His lordship can have no use for it here.” “Oh, come, come, Miss Blythe,” said his lordship. “Manorial rights, manorial rights. This laburnum overhangs the road and prevents people of an average height from passing.” “If your lordship is aggrieved I must ask your lordship to secure a remedy in a legal manner.” “But really now. Observe, Miss Blythe, I can't walk under these boughs without knocking my hat off.” He illustrated this statement by walking under the boughs. His cap fell on the dusty road, and Joseph, having picked it up, returned it to him. “Your lordship is above the average height,” said Miss Blythe-- “considerably.” “No, no,” the earl protested. “Not at all, not at all.” “I beg your lordship's pardon,” said the little old lady, with stately politeness. “Nobody,” she added, “who was not profoundly disloyal would venture to describe the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty as undersized. I am but a barleycorn less in stature than her Most Excellent Majesty, and your lordship is yards taller than myself.” “My dear Miss Blythe--” his lordship began, with hands raised in protest against this statement. “Your lordship will pardon me,” Miss Blythe interposed, swiftly, “if I say that at my age--forgive me if I say at your lordship's also--the language of conventional gallantry is unbecoming.” The little old lady said this with so starched and prim an air, and through this there peeped so obvious a satisfaction in rebuking him upon such a theme, that his lordship had to flourish his handkerchief from his pocket to hide his laughter.