She had had no sort of image in her mind of the place she was going to, or of the sort of people she was likely to see, and when they came out into the open clearing, and stopped in front of the roomy, low-lying cottage, she echoed unconsciously her Aunt Stroud's sentiments, by saying to herself: "Well! It's a queer spot." "So here you are, my dear," said a pleasant voice, as Mrs Warren came out of the house. "The master and Ned couldn't come to meet you, so we were glad of the chance of the trap for the luggage." Florence jumped down and received Mrs Warren's kiss, looking about her curiously. She was bigger and more grown-up looking than her cousin had expected; but her cheerful face with its look of pert good-nature was very familiar, and it was at least evident that she had arrived with the intention of being good-humoured. "I hope you won't find yourself dull, my dear," said Mrs Warren, as she offered tea and a new-laid egg to her visitor. "It's quiet here, no doubt, but we shall have Bessie home come harvest, and Gracie Elton, the gardener's daughter, is a nice girl that you could go with now and then." "Oh, I ain't the sort that gets dull," said Florence; "leastways, not when things are new. Most things are dull you have to do every day constant." "I dare say," said Mrs Warren, "that your own home may be a little gloomy sometimes for young folks." "Oh, it's very cheerful in the cemetery," said Florence, "and there's a deal going on with funerals and folks coming to walk there on Sundays; but I was getting tired of staying at home. I think I'd have gone back to Mrs Lee if she'd have took me." She spoke in a voice of complete unconcern, and presently asked if she might go and look round outside. Mrs Warren agreed, and Florence stepped out on to the short smooth turf and looked about her. The sun was getting low, and threw long golden shafts of light under the trees across the grass; above the waving branches the sky was blue and still. Florence was an observant girl, who walked the world with her eyes open, and she was aware that she had never seen anything so pretty as this before. "'Tis like a picture," she said to herself. Presently a pony chair came up one of the green alleys, drawn by a little grey pony and led by a pretty fair-haired boy, younger and smaller than herself. A young man was lying back in the chair, and Florence stood staring in much curiosity as the boy led the pony up to the cottage and Mrs Warren came out curtseying. "Here's Mr Edgar," she whispered. "You were best to go in, Florence." Florence retreated a few steps under the shadow of the porch, but watched eagerly as the little boy said: "Mother, I'm going to fetch the puppies for Mr Edgar to see." "Very well, Wyn; bring them round directly. Good evening, Mr Edgar. How are you, sir, to-night?"