There was a click of the garden-gate, then a smart rap, as if by the knob of a hunting-whip.

“Someone is at the gate,” said Miss Mary with curiosity.

“Yes,” answered Betty, “and I must needs answer it myself, for the bell is broken, as doubtless our visitor has discovered, and he may knock till doomsday ere the sound reach the ears of Dame Martha or Isaac, both of whom are engaged in quarrelling in the kitchen.  So so! how impatient it is!”

For another succession of knocks fell on the panel.

“I entreat you, do not open the door yourself, Betty,” cried Mary in a tone of alarm.  “Who knows who may be there?”

“Certainly not Wild Jack,” answered Betty smiling, and disengaging herself from her friend’s arm she went forward and opened the gate.

“Does Mr. Ives live here?” asked a loud, clear voice, which, however, suddenly changed in tone when the opening door disclosed the radiant vision of the parson’s lovely daughter.

A feathered hat was doffed, a gentleman sprang from his horse and, bowing low, asked if he had the honour of addressing one of the family of Mr. Ives.

“His only daughter, sir,” answered Betty courteously.  “If you wish to see my father, I will beg you to come in and wait, as he will be in shortly,” Mary Jones advanced, her eyes took in at a glance the whole distinguished appearance of the visitor, from the fine cut of his suit of claret-coloured cloth, to the well-shaped boot with shining spurs, and she gave a little sign of approval.

Betty summoned old Isaac and bade him take charge of the horse, and then led the way into the garden.

“We are primitive folk here,” she said.  “But I find most people prefer our garden-seats to entering the house.”

Mary was somewhat scandalised, she thought these easy out-door seats a breach of etiquette in themselves, but she could make no remonstrance beyond a little tweak at her friend’s sleeve.

Betty sat down and, inviting her visitor to do likewise, she said: 

“In my character as mistress of the house, I would wish to introduce you, sir, to my friend Mistress Mary Jones, of Elm Cottage close by, but have not the honour of being acquainted actually with your name, albeit I have conjectured.”

“My name is John Johnstone, madam,” he replied.  “I have but now become the possessor of Belton, near Wancote.”

“Our new neighbour,” cried Mary.

“Yes, I claim that honour,” continued Mr. Johnstone.

“We are vastly pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Mary, thinking with some pride that she could boast to her friends of already knowing the newcomer.

Mr. Johnstone acknowledged the compliment courteously, but he never took his eyes off his young hostess, who appeared in them a miracle of grace and beauty.

With the skill of a man of the world, he drew her into animated conversation, gathering from her information respecting the country round, the different meets of the hounds, the neighbours, the tradespeople, the horses.  Time slipped away almost unperceived, and neither lady knew how it had sped, when Mr. Ives, mounted on his handsome bay cob, rode up to the door.