“I’ll try not to,” said I.  “The fact is, I have just twisted my ankle on the side of Skirrid, and I wished to be told the shortest way to the station.”

“I don’t believe you can walk; and”—­she hesitated a second, then went on defiantly—­“we have no carriage to take you.”

“I should not think of putting you to any such trouble.”

“Also, if you want to reach Aber, there is no train for the next two hours.  You must come in and rest.”

“But really “—­

“I am mistress here.  I am Wilhelmina Van der Knoope.”

Being by this time on my feet again, I bowed and introduced myself by name.  She nodded.  The child had a thoughtful face—­thoughtful beyond her years—­and delicately shaped rather than pretty.

“Lobelia, run in and tell the Admirals that a gentleman has called, with my permission.”

Having dismissed the handmaiden, she observed me in silence for a few moments while she unpinned her tartan riding-skirt.  Its removal disclosed, not—­as I had expected—­a short frock, but one of quite womanly length; and she carried it with the air of a grown woman.

“You must make allowances, please.  I think,” she mused, “yes, I really think you will be able to help.  But you must not be surprised, mind.  Can you walk alone, or will you lean a hand on my shoulder?”

I could walk alone.  Of what she meant I had of course no inkling; but I saw she was as anxious now for me to come indoors as she had been prompt at first to warn me off the premises.  So I hobbled after her towards the house.  At the steps by the side-door she turned and gave me a hand.  We passed across a stone-flagged hall and through a carpetless corridor, which brought us to the foot of the grand staircase:  and a magnificent staircase it was, ornate with twisted balusters and hung with fine pictures, mostly by old Dutch masters.  But no carpet covered the broad steps, and the pictures were perishing in their frames for lack of varnish.  I had halted to stare up at a big Hondecoeter that hung in the sunlight over the first short flight of stairs—­an elaborate “Parliament of Fowls”—­when the girl turned the handle of a door to my right and entered.

“Uncle Peter, here is the gentleman who has called to see you.”

As I crossed the threshold I heard a chair pushed back, and a very old gentleman rose to welcome me at the far end of the cool and shadowy room; a tall white-haired figure in a loose suit of holland.  He did not advance, but held out a hand tentatively, as if uncertain from what direction I was advancing.  Almost at once I saw that he was stone-blind.

“But where is Uncle Melchior?” exclaimed Wilhelmina.

“I believe he is working at accounts,” the old gentleman answered—­ addressing himself to vacancy, for she had already run from the room.  He shook hands courteously and motioned me to find a chair, while he resumed his seat beside a little table heaped with letters, or rather with bundles of letters neatly tied and docketed.  His right hand rested on these bundles, and his fingers tapped upon them idly for a minute before he spoke again.