"I'll try," grunted the rather indignant Barbara, who considered that her precious charge, Clare, was being very neglectfully received. She sprang down more readily than Dick, and standing on the horse-block, lifted down little Clare. "Hallo!" said Dick, by way of ringing the bell. A slight stir was heard through the open door, and a young woman appeared, fresh-looking and smiling-faced. "Mistress Polwhele, I reckon?" she asked. "An' is this t' little lass? Eh, God bless thee, little lass! Come in--thou'rt bound to be aweary." Clare looked up into the girl's pleasant face, and sliding her hand confidingly into hers, said demurely,--"I'll come." "Dick 'll see to th' gear, Mistress," said the girl. "Thou'd better call Sim, Dick.--I reckon you'd best come wi' me." "What is your name?" asked Barbara, following her guide. "Jennet," said the smiling girl. "Well, Jennet, you are the best thing I have yet seen up hither," announced Barbara cynically. "Eh, you've none seen nought yet!" said Jennet, laughing. "There's better things here nor me, I'se warrant you." "Humph!" returned Barbara meditatively. She doubted it very much. Jennet paused at a door, and rapped. There was no answer; perhaps her appeal was not heard by those within. She pushed the door a little open, saying to Barbara, "There! you'd best go in, happen." So Barbara, putting little Clare before her, went in. It was a large, square, low room, sweet with the perfume of dried roses. There were four occupants,--two ladies, and two girls. One of the ladies sat with her back to the door, trying to catch the last ray of daylight for her work; the other had dropped asleep. Evidently neither had heard Jennet's knock. It was rather an awkward state of things. Little Clare went a few feet into the room, stopped, and looked up at Barbara for direction. At the same moment the elder girl turned her head and saw them. "Madam!" said Barbara stiffly. "Aunt Rachel!" [Note 1] said the girl. The lady who sat by the window looked round, and rose. She was young-- certainly under thirty; but rather stiff and prim, very upright, and not free from angularity. She gave the impression that she must have been born just as she was, in her black satin skirt, dark blue serge kirtle, unbending buckram cap, whitest and most unruffled of starched frills,-- and have been kept ever since under a glass case. "You are Barbara Polwhele?" she said. Barbara dropped a courtesy, and replied affirmatively. "Sister!" said Mistress Rachel, appealing to the sleeper.