Mrs. Melrose came down late.  She descended the stairs slowly, rubbing her cold hands together, and looking forlornly about her.  She wore a dress of some straw-coloured stuff, too thin for the climate of a Cumbria autumn, and round her singularly small and fleshless neck, a wisp of black velvet.  The top of the head was rather flat, and the heavy dark hair, projecting stiffly on either side of the face, emphasized at once the sharpness of the little bony chin, the general sallowness of complexion, and the remarkable size and blackness of the eyes.  There was something snakelike about the flat head, and the thin triangular face; an effect which certainly belied the little lady, for there was nothing malicious or sinister in her personality.

She had not yet set eyes on her husband, who had risen early, and could now be heard giving directions to some one in the library to her right—­a carpenter apparently, since there was hammering going on.  She supposed she must find out something about the kitchen and the servants.  Anastasia had brought up her breakfast that morning, with a flushed face, muttering complaint against the woman downstairs.  A terror struck through her.  If Anastasia should desert her—­should give notice!

Timidly she pushed open the door of the big kitchen, and prepared to play the mistress.  Mrs. Dixon was standing at the kitchen table with a pastry-board before her, making a meat pie.  She greeted her new mistress civilly, though guardedly, and went on with what she was doing.

“Are you going to cook for us?” asked Mrs. Melrose, helplessly.

“That’s what I unnerstood fro’ Muster Tyson, ma’am.”

“Then I came to speak to you about dinner.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but Muster Melrose gave me the orders a good while sen.  There was a cart goin’ into Pengarth.”

Pengarth was the nearest country town, some eight miles away.

Mrs. Melrose coloured.

“I must tell you what the baby requires,” she said, drawing herself up.

Mrs. Dixon looked at the speaker impassively, over her spectacles.

Mrs. Melrose hurriedly named a patent food—­some special biscuits—­bananas.

“Yo’ can have the milk yo’ want fro’ t’ farm,” said Mrs. Dixon slowly, in reply; “but there’s nowt of aw them things i’ t’ house as I knows on.”

“Then we must send for them.”

Mrs. Dixon shook her head.

“There won’t be anoother cart goin’ in till t’ day after to-morrow.”

“I can’t have the baby neglected!” exclaimed Mrs. Melrose, with sudden shrillness, looking angrily at the rugged face and figure before her.

“Mebbe yo’d go an talk to t’ master?” suggested Mrs. Dixon, not without, as it seemed to Netta, a touch of slyness in eyes and voice.  Of course they all knew by now that she was a cipher—­that she was not to count.  Edmund had been giving all the orders—­in his miserly cheese-paring way.  No comforts!—­no conveniences!—­not even bare necessaries, for herself and the child.  Yet she knew very well that her husband was a rich man.