 the house, and
his hand was on the bell, when an unexpected opening of the door presented Louis
Warricombe just coming forth for a walk. They exchanged amiabilities, and Louis
made known that his father and mother were away on a visit to friends in
Cornwall.
    »But pray come in,« he added, offering to re-enter.
    Peak excused himself, for it was evident that Louis made a sacrifice to
courtesy. But at that moment there approached from the garden Fanny Warricombe
and her friend Bertha Lilywhite, eldest daughter of the genial vicar; they shook
hands with Godwin, Fanny exclaiming:
    »Don't go away, Mr. Peak. Have a cup of tea with us - Sidwell is at home. I
want to show you a strange sort of spleenwort that I gathered this morning.«
    »In that case,« said her brother, smiling, »I may confess that I have an
appointment. Pray forgive me for hurrying off, Mr. Peak.«
    Godwin was embarrassed, but the sprightly girl repeated her summons, and he
followed into the house.
 

                                       V

Having led the way to the drawing-room, Fanny retired again for a few moments,
to fetch the fern of which she had spoken, leaving Peak in conversation with
little Miss Lilywhite. Bertha was a rather shy girl of fifteen, not easily
induced, under circumstances such as these, to utter more than monosyllables,
and Godwin, occupied with the unforeseen results of his call, talked about the
weather. With half-conscious absurdity he had begun to sketch a theory of his
own regarding rain-clouds and estuaries (Bertha listening with an air of the
gravest attention) when Fanny reappeared, followed by Sidwell. Peak searched the
latter's face for indications of her mood, but could discover nothing save a
spirit of gracious welcome. Such aspect was a matter of course, and he knew it.
None the less, his nervousness and the state of mind engendered by a week's
miserable solitude, tempted him to believe that Sidwell did not always wear that
smile in greeting a casual caller. This was the first time that she had received
him without the countenance of Mrs. Warricombe. Observing her perfect manner, as
she sat down and began to talk, he asked himself what her age really was. The
question had never engaged his thoughts. Eleven years ago, when he saw her at
the house near Kingsmill and again at Whitelaw College, she looked a very young
girl, but whether of thirteen or sixteen he could not at the time have
determined, and such a margin of
