“Well, come an’ see the lady,” and Priscilla hurried her along—­ “She said she wished to see you partikler.  I told ’er the master was dead, an’ onny buried this mornin’, an’ she smiled kind o’ pleasant like, an’ said she was sorry to have called on such an unfortunate day, but her business was important, an’ if you could see ’er—­”

“Is she young?”

“No, she’s not young—­but she isn’t old,” replied Priscilla—­ “She’s wonderful good-looking an’ dressed beautiful!  I never see such clothes cut out o’ blue serge!  An’ she’s got a scent about her like our stillroom when we’re makin’ pot-purry bags for the linen.”

By this time they had reached the house, and Innocent went straight into the best parlour.  Her unexpected and unknown visitor stood there near the window, looking out on the beds of flowers, but turned round as she entered.  For a moment they confronted each other in silence,—­Innocent gazing in mute astonishment and enquiry at the tall, graceful, self-possessed woman, who, evidently of the world, worldly, gazed at her in turn with a curious, almost quizzical interest.  Presently she spoke in a low, sweet, yet cold voice.

“So you are Innocent!” she said.

The girl’s heart beat quickly,—­something frightened her, though she knew not what.

“Yes,” she answered, simply—­“I am Innocent.  You wished to see me—?”

“Yes—­I wished to see you,”—­and the lady quietly shut the window —­“and I also wish to talk to you.  In case anyone may be about listening, will you shut the door?”

With increasing nervousness and bewilderment, Innocent obeyed.

“You had my card, I think?” continued the lady, smiling ever so slightly—­“I gave it to the servant—­”

Innocent held it half crumpled in her hand.

“Yes,” she said, trying to rally her self-possession—­“Lady Maude Blythe—­”

“Exactly!—­you have quite a nice pronunciation!  May I sit down?” and, without waiting for the required permission, Lady Blythe sank indolently into the old oaken arm-chair where Farmer Jocelyn had so long been accustomed to sit, and, taking out a cobweb of a handkerchief powerfully scented, passed it languorously across her lips and brow.

“You have had a very sad day of it, I fear!” she continued—­ “Deaths and funerals are such unpleasant affairs!  But the farmer—­ Mr. Jocelyn—­was not your father, was he?” The question was put with a repetition of the former slight, cold smile.

“No,”—­and the girl looked at her wonderingly—­“but he was better than my own father who deserted me!”

“Dear me!  Your own father deserted you!  How shocking of him!” and Lady Blythe turned a pair of brilliant dark eyes full on the pale little face confronting her—­“And your mother?”

“She deserted me, too.”

“What a reprehensible couple!” Here Lady Blythe extended a delicately gloved hand towards her.  “Come here and let me look at you!”