“Wheer be you a-goin’?” he demanded, turning his bull neck slowly round—­“I baint pertikler for a far journey.”

“Aren’t you?” and the young lady smiled.  “You must drive me to St. Rest,—­Abbot’s Manor, please!”

The heavy-faced driver paused, considering.  Should he perform the journey, or should he not?  Perhaps it would be wisest to undertake the job,—­there was the ‘Mother Huff’ at the end of the journey, and Roger Buggins was a friend of his.  Yes,—­he would take the risk of conveying the humbly-clad female up to the Manor; he had heard rumours that the old place was once again to be inhabited, and that the mistress of it was daily expected;—­this person in the blue serge was probably one of her messengers or retainers.

“My fare’s ten shillings,” he observed, still peering round distrustfully; “It’s a good seven mile up hill and down dale.”

“All right!” responded the young woman, cheerfully; “You shall have ten shillings.  Only please begin to go, won’t you?”

This request was accompanied by an arch smile, and a flash of blue eyes from under the dark straw hat brim.  Whereat the cumbrous Jehu was faintly moved to a responsive grin.

“She ain’t bad-looking, neither!” he muttered to himself,—­and he was in a somewhat better humour when at last he ondescended to start.  His vehicle was a closed one, and though be fully expected his passenger would put her head out of the window, when the horse was labouring up-hill, and entreat him to go faster,—­which habit he had found by experience was customary to woman in a one-horse fly,- -nothing of the kind happened on this occasion.  The person in the blue serge was evidently both patient and undemonstrative.  Whether the horse crawled or slouched, or trotted,—­whether the fly dragged, or bumped, or jolted, she made no sign.  When St. Rest was reached at last, and the driver whipped his steed into a semblance of spirit, and drove through the little village with a clatter, two or three people came to the doors of their cottages and looked at the vehicle scrutinisingly, wondering whether its occupant was, or was not Miss Vancourt.  But a meaning wink from the sage on the box intimated that they need not trouble themselves,—­the ‘fare’ was no one of the least importance.

Presently, the fine old armorial gates of the drive which led up to Abbot’s Manor were reached,—­they were set wide open, this having been done according to Mrs. Spruce’s orders.  A woman at the lodge came hastily out, but the cab had passed her before she had time to see who was in it.  Up through the grand avenue of stately oaks and broad-branching elms, whose boughs, rich with the budding green, swayed in the light wind with a soft rustling sound as of sweeping silks on velvet, the unostentatious vehicle jogged slowly,—­it was a steady ascent all the way, and the driver was duly considerate of his animal’s capabilities.  At last came the turn in the long approach, which showed the whole