For the first time, as she went into the great silent house, she realised how lonely her life was, how drear and uneventful.  Now and again, while cantering along the roads on the big chestnut, she had met other girls riding and driving:  the Vaynes, the Avorys, and the Bannerdales; had heard them talking and laughing merrily and happily, but it had never occurred to her to envy them, to reflect that she was different to other girls who had friends and companions and girlish amusements.  She had been quite content—­until now.  And even now she was not discontented; but this acquaintanceship which had sprung up so strangely between her and Mr. Orme was like the touch of a warm hand stretched out from the great world, and its sudden warmth awoke her to the coldness, the dreariness of her life.

As she entered the hall, Jessie came in by the back door with her apron full of eggs.

“I saw you come in, Miss Ida, so I thought I’d just bring you these to show you; they’re laying finely now, ain’t they?”

Ida looked round, from where she stood going through the form of drying her thick but small boots against the huge log that glowed on the wide dog-iron.

“Yes:  that is a splendid lot, Jessie!” she said, with a smile.  “You will have some to send to market for the first time this season.”

“Yes, miss,” said Jessie, deftly rolling the eggs into a basket.  “But I’m thinking there won’t be any need to send them to Bryndermere market.  Jason’s just been telling me that the new folks up at Brae Wood have been sending all round the place for eggs and butter and cream and fowls, and Jason says that he can get so much better prices from them than from Bryndermere.  He was thinking that he’d put aside all the cream he could spare and kill half a dozen of the pullets—­if you don’t object, Miss Ida?”

Ida’s face flushed, and she looked fixedly at the fire.  Something within her protested against the idea of selling the dairy produce to the new people at Brae Wood; but she struggled against the feeling.

“Oh yes; why not, Jessie?” she said; though she knew well enough.

“Well, miss,” replied Jessie, hesitatingly, and with a questioning glance at her young mistress’s averted face, “Jason didn’t know at first; he said that selling the things at the new house was different to sending ’em to market, and that you mightn’t like it; that you might think it was not becoming.”

Ida laughed.

“That’s pride on Jason’s part; wicked pride, Jessie,” she said.  “If you sell your butter and eggs, it can’t very much matter whether you sell them at the market or direct.  Oh, yes:  tell Jason he can let them have anything we can spare.”

Jessie’s face cleared and broke into a smile:  she came of a race that looks after the pennies and loves a good “deal.”