“Yes!” she murmured—­“I must invent a name—­and make it famous!” Involuntarily she clenched her small hand as though she held some prize within its soft grasp.  “Why not?  Other people have done the same—­I can but try!  If I fail—!”

Her delicate fingers relaxed,—­in her imagination she saw some coveted splendour slip from her hold, and her little face grew set and serious as though she had already suffered a whole life’s disillusion.

“I can but try,” she repeated—­“something urges me on—­something tells me I may succeed.  And then—!”

Her eyes brightened slowly—­a faint rose flushed her cheeks,—­and with the sudden change of expression, she became almost beautiful.  Herein lay her particular charm,—­the rarest of all in women,—­the passing of the lights and shadows of thought over features which responded swiftly and emotionally to the prompting and play of the mind.

“I should have to go,” she went on—­“even if Dad were still alive.  I could not—­I cannot marry Robin!—­I do not want to marry anybody.  It is the common lot of women—­why they should envy or desire it, I cannot think!  To give one’s self up entirely to a man’s humours—­to be glad of his caresses, and miserable when he is angry or tired—­to bear his children and see them grow up and leave you for their own ‘betterment’ as they would call it—­oh!—­ what an old, old drudging life!—­a life of monotony, sickness, pain, and fatigue!—­and nothing higher done than what animals can do!  There are plenty of women in the world who like to stay on this level, I suppose—­but I should not like it,—­I could not live in this beautiful, wonderful world with no higher ambition than a sheep or a cow!”

At that moment she suddenly saw Priscilla running from the house across the meadow, and beckoning to her in evident haste and excitement.  She got up at once and ran to meet her, flying across the grass with light airy feet as swiftly as Atalanta.

“What is it?” she cried, seeing Priscilla’s face, crimson with hurry and nervousness—­“Is there some new trouble?”

Priscilla was breathless, and could scarcely speak.

“There’s a lady”—­she presently gasped—­“a lady to see you—­from London—­in the best parlour—­she asked for Farmer Jocelyn’s adopted daughter named Innocent.  And she gave me her card—­here it is”—­and Priscilla wiped her face and gasped again as Innocent took the card and read “Lady Maude Blythe,”—­then gazed at Priscilla, wonderingly.

“Who can she be?—­some one who knew Dad—?”

“Bless you, child, he never knew lord nor lady!” replied Priscilla, recovering her breath somewhat—­“No—­it’s more likely one o’ they grand folks what likes to buy old furniture, an’ mebbe somebody’s told ‘er about Briar Farm things, an’ ’ow they might p’raps be sold now the master’s gone—­”

“But that would be very silly and wicked talk,” said Innocent.  “Nothing will be sold—­Robin would never allow it—­”