At last, on the afternoon of a day when Hannah was more than usually unbearable, Margaret determined to write to Miss Hunstan, asking if she might really go and see her if she went to London. This was in her own room over the porch--a little room, with a latticed window and a seat to it, and an old-fashioned cupboard let into the wall. "I will write at once," she cried, "this very minute." It gave her some comfort even to see the address on the envelope, for she wrote that first. When the letter was finished she felt as if she had taken a step towards freedom: she put her elbows on the table, and, resting her face in her hands, tried to imagine what freedom would be like, and all that might come of it. And then, faint in the distance, as in a dream, she heard the sound of a horse's hoofs. They were coming nearer and nearer along the lane. She rose and looked out, but it was not possible to see the rider, for in the summer-time the hedges were thick and green. It was June now, and the honeysuckle and traveller's joy grew high. "Mr. Garratt again, I suppose," she said to herself in despair. The sound of the hoofs came nearer; they had come in at the gate, past the duck-pond, and the outbuildings and the hayricks, and round the corner of the garden. They stopped at the porch, and she heard the boy call out, "I'm coming, sir," and run to take the horse. "He generally rides round to the stable himself," she thought; but she had made up her mind that it was Mr. Garratt, and determined to keep to her room all the afternoon. There was a knock at the front door, though it was standing wide open, and at that she started, for Mr. Garratt never knocked; he just walked in as if he felt that one day he would be the master. Towsey came out of the kitchen and shuffled through the living-place to the porch. "Is Mrs. Vincent at home?" Then there was no doubt at all. "It is Mr. Carringford," Margaret said to herself, and her heart bounded with happiness. "And is Miss Vincent at home?" she heard him further ask, as Towsey showed him into the best parlor. "Yes! Yes! She was at home," she thought, and danced a fan-fan round her room; but she stopped suddenly--suppose he had heard of Mr. Garratt? Oh, what a good thing Sir George had gone, for now, after all, Tom mightn't know. She stopped before her glass, and in a moment had taken down her hair, and smiled as she saw the glint of gold in it, and twisted it up into quite a neat knot. "And my lace collar," she said, and pinned it round her throat and fastened it with a little heart-shaped brooch that her mother had given her on her birthday; "and my best shoes, for these are shabby at the toes." Then she was ready.