Joyce did not delay a moment, but went with her quick, light step across the field, and then through a little gate which opened into a belt of low-growing shrubs, beyond which was the carriage-road from the village. An old-fashioned _barouche_--old-fashioned even in those days--stood before the door, and sitting in it were two ladies; the elder one upright and alert, the younger leaning back as if to resign herself to the long waiting time, before any of the family appeared. Although comparatively near neighbours in the county, Joyce never remembered to have seen Mrs. More before. Her name was familiar enough, and her schools, established on all sides, were known by every one, though it cannot be said they were approved by every one. Mrs. More and her sister had in times past made some overtures towards Mrs. Falconer, but they were coldly repulsed, and a parcel of tracts had even been returned. Later there had been the disagreement about the dairy-maid, and the time for Mrs. Hannah More to carry the crusade into the enemy's camp was over. She had, in the year 1824, nearly numbered her four-score years; and the loss of her sisters, and repeated attacks of illness, made her more willing to rest from her labours, only taking care that the good seed sown in the days of health and vigour, should be watered and cared for, that it might yield a good harvest. It had happened that several times during the lovely spring of this year she had met Joyce Falconer driving in the high gig with her father, or trotting by his side on the rough pony, the use of which she shared with all her young brothers. The sweet, frank face had attracted her, and she had inquired about Joyce when on a visit of ceremony at the Palace at Wells a few weeks before. The result was, as we know, that Miss Falconer gave a melancholy account of her niece's ignorance, which she believed was entirely due to her mother's prejudices as to boarding-schools and her father's over-indulgence and excessive affection for his only daughter. With her accustomed sympathy with all the young who were just setting forth on life's journey, Mrs. More determined to see something of Mr. Falconer's little daughter, and her aunt's letter had decided her to lose no time in paying a visit to Fair Acres. As Joyce came up to the steps of the carriage Mrs. More held out her hand--a white, delicately-formed hand, half covered by a lace mitten. Joyce had heard Mrs. More spoken of as an old lady of near eighty, and her surprise was written on her lovely face, as she said, simply: "Are you Mrs. More?"