Mrs. Oakshott sat in an arm-chair beside a large fire in a wainscotted room, with a folding-screen shutting off the window.  Her spinning-wheel was near, but it was only too plain that ’feeble was the hand, and silly the thread.’  She bent her head in its wadded black velvet hood, but excused herself from rising, as she was crippled by rheumatic pains.  She had evidently once been a pretty little person, innocent and inane, and her face had become like that of a withered baby, piteous in its expression of pain and weariness, but otherwise somewhat vacant.  At first, indeed, there was a look of alarm.  Perhaps she expected every visitor to come with a complaint of her unlucky Peregrine, but when Mrs. Woodford spoke cheerfully of being her neighbour in the country, she was evidently relieved and even gratified, prattling in a soft plaintive tone about her sufferings and the various remedies, ranging from woodlice rolled into natural pills, and grease off the church bells, to diamond dust and Goa stones, since, as she said, there was no cost to which Major Oakshott would not go for her benefit.  He had even procured for her a pound of the Queen’s new Chinese herb, and it certainly was as nauseous as could be wished, when boiled in milk, but she was told that was not the way it was taken at my Lady Charnock’s.  She was quite animated when Mrs. Woodford offered to show her how to prepare it.

Therewith the master of the house came in, and the aspect of affairs changed.  He was a tall, dark, grave man, plainly though handsomely dressed, and in a gentlemanly way making it evident that visits to his wife were not welcome.  He said that her health never permitted her to go abroad, and that his poor house contained nothing that could please a Court lady.  Mrs. Oakshott shrank into herself, and became shy and silent, and Mrs. Woodford felt constrained to take leave, courteously conducted to the door by her unwilling host.

She had not taken many steps before she was startled by a sharp shower from a squirt coming sidelong like a blow on her cheek and surprising her into a low cry, which was heard by the Major, so that he hastened out, exclaiming, “Madam, I trust that you are not hurt.”

“Oh no, sir!  It is nothing—­not a stone—­only water!” she said, wiping it with her handkerchief.

“I am grieved and ashamed at the evil pranks of my unhappy son, but he shall suffer for it.”

“Nay, sir, I pray you.  It was only childish mischief.”

He had not waited to hear her pleadings, and before she was half across the Close he had overtaken her, dragging the cowering struggling boy in his powerful grasp.

“Now, Peregrine,” he commanded, “let me instantly hear you ask the lady’s pardon for your dastardly trick.  Or—!” and his other hand was raised for a blow.

“I am sure he is sorry,” said Mrs. Woodford, making a motion to ward off the stroke, and as the queer eyes glanced up at her in wondering inquiry, she laid her hand on the bony shoulder, saying, “I know you did not mean to hurt me.  You are sorry, are you not?”