“She is a pretty little thing,” said Lucy, “but my mother was much concerned to find her so mere a child, and would not, if she had seen her, have consented to the marriage for two years to come, except for the sake of having her in our own hands.”

“I thought she was sixteen.”

“Barely fifteen, my dear, and far younger than we were at that age.  She cried because her woman said she must leave her old doll behind her; and when my brother declared that she should have anything she liked, she danced about, and kissed him, and made him kiss its wooden face with half the paint rubbed off.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes!  She is like a pretty fresh plaything to him, and they go about together just like big Towzer and little Frisk at home.  He is very much amused with her, and she thinks him the finest possession that ever came in her way.”

“Well, so he is.”

“That is true; but somehow it is scarcely like husband and wife; and my mother fears that she may be sickly, for she is so small and slight that it seems as if you could blow her away, and so white that you would think she had no blood, except when a little heat brings the purest rose colour to her cheek, and that, my lady says, betokens weakliness.  You know, of course, that she is an orphan; her father died of a wasting consumption, and her mother not long after, when she was a yearling babe.  It was her grandfather who was my father’s friend in the old cavalier days, and wrote to propose the contract to my brother not long before his death, when she was but five years old.  The pity was that she was not sent to us at once, for the old lord, her grand-uncle, never heeded or cared for her, but left her to servants, who petted her, but understood nothing of care of her health or her education, so that the only wonder is that she is alive or so sweet and winning as she is.  She can hardly read without spelling, and I had to make copies for her of Alice Fitzhubert, to show her how to sign the book.  All she knew she learnt from the old steward, and only when she liked.  My father laughs and is amused, but my lady sighs, and hopes her portion is not dearly bought.”

“Is not she to be a great heiress?”

“Not of the bulk of the lands—­they go to heirs male; but there is much besides, enough to make Charles a richer man than our father.  I wonder what you will think of her.  My mother is longing to talk her over with Mrs Woodford.”

“And my mother is longing to see my lady.”

“I fear she is still but poorly.”

“We think she will be much better when we get home,” said Anne.  “I am sure she is stronger, for she walked round the Close yesterday, and was scarcely tired.”

“But tell me, Anne, is it true that poor Master Oliver Oakshott is dead of smallpox?”