The garden-door was on the latch, it needed but to raise it, and Mistress Mary Jones walked in.  Betty went eagerly forward to meet her with out-stretched hands.  No welcome could be more cordial than that which Betty Ives gave to her friends.

“I am so glad to see you, Mary? and are you well?  Have you lost your headache?”

Miss Mary sank into a garden-seat and sighed, still retaining the hand of her friend.

“I am better, sweet Bet,” she said; “but my nerves will not recover the shock for years!  No, no! do not shake your head and smile; if you had the crawlings up the back that I experience, and the creepings down the spine, and the shaking of knees, the twittering of the lips, and quivering of the eyelids—­”

“Enough, enough!” cried Betty.  “Thank Heaven, I am not tormented thus!  My dear Mary, how can you survive such a multitude of ailments?”

“I have survived worse!” she answered, shuddering.  “I survived the shock itself.”

“Were you very much frightened?” asked Betty in a tone of interest.

“Frightened!  I was terrified.  I have not nerve like yours.  The dark, the shot! the dark faces, the loud voices, the ... ah!”

Seeing Mary’s chest beginning to heave, Betty thought it high time to change the subject.  “We will not recall it,” she said hastily.  “Let us think on more agreeable topics.  My father rode into Wancote this morning, to stroll about the marketplace and hear the news.”

“And why did you not go?”

“Because,” answered Betty, “I have been making preserves the livelong day.  Up at six this morning, for Dame Martha told me that, owing to my putting it off so long, the fruit was beginning to rot, so there was no time to lose.”

“I leave preserving to my woman,” said Mary.  “The hanging over the fire is ruin to the finest skin.”

“Yes, my face is scorched and heated,” answered Betty, turning a cheek like a peach to her friend.  “But after all, to so weather-beaten a maid as myself, up and out in all seasons, a scorched cheek, more or less, signifies not; and Dame Martha works hard.”

“And had your father any news from Wancote?”

“Yes, news indeed—­Belton has been taken!”

“Taken?”

“Hired or purchased by a gentleman of the name of Johnstone, whose arrival is expected hourly.”

“This is news indeed!  None but a rich man could have paid the price asked.”

“His horses have arrived,” went on Betty.  “Only four of them as yet, but each one of the four of surpassing beauty.  One of them, Mr. Barnes told my father, looked worth a king’s ransom.”

“May the owner be worthy of his cattle,” said Mary Jones.  “And were there no coach-horses, no carriages?  No symptoms of a lady to dispense the hospitalities of Belton?”

“Mr. Johnstone is said to be unmarried,” answered Betty gravely.  “I am sorry for it, a new neighbour would have been an agreeable addition to our society.”