She marvelled pityingly at the sort of madness which kept the streets so lively for no reasonable purpose.  When she was on her feet again, she felt for the first time, that she was nearing the sister for whom she hungered, and the sensation beset her that she had landed in a foreign country.  Mary Ann Wicklow chattered all the while to the general ear.  It was her pride to be the discoverer of Dahlia’s terrace.

“Not for worlds would she enter the house,” she said, in a general tone; she knowing better than to present herself where downright entreaty did not invite her.

Rhoda left her to count the numbers along the terrace-walk, and stood out in the road that her heart might select Dahlia’s habitation from the other hueless residences.  She fixed upon one, but she was wrong, and her heart sank.  The fair Mary Ann fought her and beat her by means of a careful reckoning, as she remarked,—­

“I keep my eyes open; Number 15 is the corner house, the bow-window, to a certainty.”

Gardens were in front of the houses; or, to speak more correctly, strips of garden walks.  A cab was drawn up close by the shrub-covered iron gate leading up to No. 15.  Mary Ann hurried them on, declaring that they might be too late even now at a couple of dozen paces distant, seeing that London cabs, crawlers as they usually were, could, when required, and paid for it, do their business like lightning.  Her observation was illustrated the moment after they had left her in the rear; for a gentleman suddenly sprang across the pavement, jumped into a cab, and was whirled away, with as much apparent magic to provincial eyes, as if a pantomimic trick had been performed.  Rhoda pressed forward a step in advance of her father.

“It may have been her husband,” she thought, and trembled.  The curtains up in the drawing-room were moved as by a hand; but where was Dahlia’s face?  Dahlia knew that they were coming, and she was not on the look-out for them!—­a strange conflict of facts, over which Rhoda knitted her black brows, so that she looked menacing to the maid opening the door, whose “Oh, if you please, Miss,” came in contact with “My sister—­Mrs.—­, she expects me.  I mean, Mrs.—­” but no other name than “Dahlia” would fit itself to Rhoda’s mouth.

“Ayrton,” said the maid, and recommenced, “Oh, if you please, Miss, and you are the young lady, Mrs. Ayrton is very sorry, and have left word, would you call again to-morrow, as she have made a pressing appointment, and was sure you would excuse her, but her husband was very anxious for her to go, and could not put it off, and was very sorry, but would you call again to-morrow at twelve o’clock? and punctually she would be here.”

The maid smiled as one who had fairly accomplished the recital of her lesson.  Rhoda was stunned.

“Is Mrs. Ayrton at home?—­Not at home?” she said.

“No:  don’t ye hear?” quoth the farmer, sternly.