’Are you come to stay a good while at Chickaree?  I hope you will.’

’Maybe—­perhaps.  O my boots are not wet, Miss Maryland,—­and I don’t think I caught enough raindrops to hurt.  How kind you are!—­And how well your brother describes you.’

’Arthur?—­I wish he would not describe me.  Chickaree is such a beautiful place, I should think one might like to stay there.  I have been hoping about it, ever since I heard you were coming.  Father knows Mr. Falkirk, and used to know your father and mother, so well, that I have almost felt as if I knew you,—­till I saw you.’

‘And you don’t feel so now?’ with a shade of disappointment.

‘No,’ said Primrose laughing.  ’But I am sure I shall very soon, if you will let me.  I have wished for it so much!  There, won’t that do?  It is lucky I had some of Prue’s things here—­ mine are too short.  Prue is my sister.  It looks very nice, I think.’

‘O yes,’ her guest answered, taking up her bunch of roses, fresh with the rain.  ’Thank you very much!  But why do you say that about your brother?’

‘Arthur?—­O—­descriptions never tell the truth.’

‘I am sure he did,’ said Wych Hazel.  ’And I know I would give anything to have anybody to talk so about me.’

Primrose returned a somewhat earnest and wondering look at her new friend; then took her hand to lead her down stairs.

In the hall they found Mr. Rollo; not by his packing case exactly, for he had taken that to pieces, and the contents stood fair to view; a very handsome new sewing machine.  Surrounded with bits of board and litter, he stood examining the works and removing dust and bits of paper and string.  Over the litter sprang to his side Primrose and laid her hand silently in his, and with downcast eyes stood still looking at the machine.  The bright eyes under their lids spoke as much joy as Rosy’s face often showed; yet she was perfectly still.

‘Well?’ said Rollo, squeezing the little hand and looking laughingly down at her.

‘You are so good!’

‘You don’t think it,’ said he.  ’You know better; and as you always speak perfect truth, I am surprised to hear you.’

‘You are good to me,’ said Primrose in a low tone.

‘I should be a pleasant fellow if I wasn’t,’ said he stooping to kiss her, at which the flush of pleasure on Rosy’s cheek deepened; ’but in the meantime it is proper we should look after the comfort of our prisoner.’  Then stepping across the litter to where Wych Hazel stood, he went on—­’You know, of course, that you stand in that relation to us, Miss Kennedy?  Primrose is turnkey, and I am governor.  Would you like to see the inside of the jail?’

The ‘prisoner’ had stood still in grave wonderment at people and things generally; especially at the footing Mr. Rollo seemed to have in this house.

‘Governor to a steam engine is an easier post,’ she said, throwing off her thoughts.