A short steep-up grass
hill behind was crowned with a few Scotch firs, and in front, an old
orchard of apple trees, just breaking into flower, stretched down to a
stream and a long wild meadow. A little boy with oblique dark eyes was
shepherding a pig, and by the house door stood a woman, who came towards
them. The girl said:
"It is Mrs. Narracombe, my aunt."
"Mrs. Narracombe, my aunt," had a quick, dark eye, like a mother
wild-duck's, and something of the same snaky turn about her neck.
"We met your niece on the road," said Ashurst; "she thought you might
perhaps put us up for the night."
Mrs. Narracombe, taking them in from head to heel, answered:
"Well, I can, if you don't mind one room. Megan, get the spare room
ready, and a bowl of cream. You'll be wanting tea, I suppose."
Passing through a sort of porch made by two yew trees and some
flowering-currant bushes, the girl disappeared into the house, her
peacock tam-o'-shanter bright athwart that rosy-pink and the dark green
of the yews.
"Will you come into the parlour and rest your leg? You'll be from
college, perhaps?"
"We were, but we've gone down now."
Mrs. Narracombe nodded sagely.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236