Mrs. Noah, the housekeeper, at Aikenside, was slicing vegetable oysters for the nice little dish intended for her own supper, when the head of Sorrel came around the corner of the building, followed by the square-boxed wagon, containing Grandpa Markham, who, bewildered by the beauty and spaciousness of the grounds, and wholly uncertain as to where he ought to stop, had driven over the smooth-gravelled road round to the side kitchen door, Mrs. Noah’s special domain, and as sacred to her as Betsey Trotwood’s patch of green. “In the name of wonder, what codger is that? and what is he doing here?” was Mrs. Noah’s exclamation, as she dropped the bit of salsify she was scraping, and hurrying to the door, she called out, “I say, you, sir, what made you drive up here, when I’ve said over and over again, that I wouldn’t have wheels tearing up my turf and gravel?” “I—I beg your pardon. I lost my way, I guess, there was so many turnin’s. I’m sorry, but a little rain will fetch it right,” grandpa said, glancing ruefully at the ruts in the gravel and the marks on the turf. Mrs. Noah was not at heart an unkind woman, and something in the benignant expression of the old man’s face, or in the apologetic tone of his voice, mollified her somewhat, and without further comment she stood waiting for his next remark. It was a most unfortunate one, for though as free from weaknesses as most of her sex, Mrs. Noah was terribly sensitive as to her age, and the same census-taker would never venture twice within her precincts. Glancing at her dress, which this afternoon was much smarter than usual, grandpa thought she could not be a servant; and as she seemed to have a right to say where he should drive and where he should not, the meek old man concluded she was a near relation of Guy—mother, perhaps; but no, Guy’s mother was dead, as grandpa well knew, for all Devonshire had heard of the young bride Agnes, who had married Guy’s father for money and rank. To have been mistaken for Guy’s mother would not have offended Mrs. Noah particularly; but she was fearfully shocked when Grandpa Markham said: “I come on business with Squire Guy. Are you his gran’marm?” “His gran’marm!” screamed Mrs. Noah fearfully. “Bless you, man, Squire Guy, as you call him, is twenty-five years old.” As Grandpa Markham was rather blind he failed to see the point, but knew that in some way he had given offense. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I was sure you was some kin—maybe an _a’nt_.” No, she was not even that, but, willing enough to let the old man believe her a Remington—she did not explain that she was only the housekeeper—but she simply said: “If it’s Mr. Guy you want, I can tell you he is not at home, which will save you getting out.” “Not at home, and I’ve come so far to see him!” grandpa exclaimed, and in his voice there was so much genuine disappointment that Mrs. Noah rejoined quite kindly: