“Aye, I’m as neat as a new pin,” she said to herself; “and these boots are as comfortable as can be. Yes, I’ll find out all I can, and I’ll let out nothing. Now, I wonder who this pretty young miss is a-coming up the avenue. I’ll bob a curtsey to her leastways.” A tall girl leading a bicycle and wearing a dark blue serge cycling dress was seen approaching. A couple of dogs were following her. The dogs made at once for the old woman, barking loudly as they did so. But Mrs. Ives was no coward. She dropped two or three curtseys, as was her manner, first to the lady and then to the dogs. The dogs began to leap up at her. “Manners, manners!” she cried to them. “Get down. Call ’em off, please, missy, call ’em off. I ain’t afeared, for I don’t think they’ll bite, but I don’t want to be stretched flat on the road. Call ’em off, please, missy.” Barbara whistled to the dogs, who immediately bounded back to her. She drew up before the little woman, who dropped another curtsey. “Eh, but you’re a pretty gel, and it’s a pleasure to look at you,” said Mrs. Ives. Barbara colored. “I don’t know your face,” she said. “I know most of the people round here. Are you a stranger?” “My dearie, that I am, and my name is Ives—Mrs. Ives—at your service.” “Ives!” said Barbara, feeling puzzled. “Ives—it is an uncommon name,” she added. “Yes, my love, but not so uncommon in Cornwall as here. I hail from Cornwall, missy.” “I have never been in Cornwall,” said Barbara, “but I understand that it is a beautiful county.” “That it is. Eh, but you won’t mind a compliment from an old woman—you have a sweet face. I like them big brown eyes and that clear sort of complexion without any freckles. Was you ever troubled with freckles, dear?” “No,” replied Barbara. “Well, there’s a beautiful recipe I has got for getting rid of ’em. It’s mostly made of buttermilk, but the buttermilk must be fresh. Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss”—for Barbara was beginning to move on. “I was on my way to the house to see the lady, the new lady what has got lately married—Lady Pelham. I want to ask her some questions.” “I am Lady Pelham,” said Barbara, “so you need not go to the house to see me. Can I do anything for you?” “Oh, sakes alive!” Mrs. Ives dropped three or four curtseys in quick succession. “To think that I should be looking at a real titled dame! It must be wonderful comfortin’ to be called Lady. Do you like it, my dear young Miss?” “Yes,” answered Barbara, who began to be much entertained. “I like to be called Lady Pelham because I know then that I am my dear husband’s wife. I love him with all my heart.” “That’s right, and as it should be,” said old Mrs. Ives in an emphatic voice. “I like to hear a young lady stand up for her good man. And how long is you wedded, dear?” “Not long—not quite two months.” “Aye, these are early days. You haven’t had your first quarrel, has you?” “No; why should I ever have a quarrel?”