As soon as the children had finished their tea, I took them to the window, where they found plenty to amuse them. The white pony was still cropping the grass; here and there was a nibbling sheep; the rooks were cawing about their nests in the elm trees; the peacock was strutting along the terrace, accompanied by his mate; a pair of golden-crested pheasants followed them. Presently the bay mare was brought round by a groom, and Mr. Hawtry came out on the terrace, and stood talking to Mr. Cheriton before he mounted. “Why did you call him Squire Hawtry, Hannah?” I observed, curiously, as he rode away down the avenue. “He is mostly called by that name,” returned Hannah. “He is a gentleman farmer, and lives at the Red Farm down Dorlcote way. His mother and sister used to live with him, but his mother died two years ago, and Miss Agnes did not long survive her. She was a sweet creature, and very handsome, but she had been a sad invalid the last few years of her life.” “Poor Mr. Hawtry! and he is all alone.” “Quite alone, except for his good old housekeeper, Mrs. Cornish; she takes good care of Mr. Roger, as she calls him. Folks say,” continued Hannah, somewhat hesitating, “Squire Hawtry has had enough of loneliness and nursing Miss Agnes, and that he is looking out for a wife; he and Miss Gay are firm friends, and——” “I think Reggie is getting sleepy,” I observed, hastily, for Joyce was listening with all her might, and the old proverb is true in saying “little pitchers have long ears;” besides which this was gossiping about other people’s affairs, and Hannah knew I never countenanced gossip; it always seemed to me such a mean and undignified thing to chatter about those who were inmates of the house that sheltered us. We had partaken of their bread and salt, and so they ought to have been sacred to us. How little the world understands the so-called word “honour,” but “_Noblesse oblige_” is a safe motto. Hannah took the hint with her usual good nature, and went off for the bath water. The next moment there was a slight peremptory tap at the nursery door, and before I could answer a tall, elegant-looking woman, dressed in black, entered the room. I rose at once in some little trepidation; of course it was Mrs. Markham. “Good evening, nurse,” she said, in rather a thin, highly-pitched voice. “I hope you find yourself comfortable, and that the children are not tired with the journey.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she seated herself languidly, and called to Joyce, “Come to me, my dear; I am your Aunt Adelaide; good children always come when they are called.” I gave Joyce a slight push, for she was hanging back in a most unaccountable way, and yet she was by no means a shy child, and would be friendly even with strangers, if she liked their appearance. I thought Mrs. Markham looked a little annoyed at her hesitation, but she controlled herself and tried coaxing.