And Lettice stands silent and pensive in front of the long drawing-room windows. Shall she go in and have a quiet morning’s sketching, or bend her back over her embroidery frame, or wander away with Brownie to the clear lake into which falls the little babbling brook, and give him a good half-hour’s splashing and washing, or shall she—But here her speculations and plannings are suddenly brought to a close by a quaintly-dressed stooping old figure with a basket of tools, who comes up from a side walk and salutes her with a respectful “Good morning, Miss Lettice, and what orders for the day, if you please?”
Lettice looks up vexed at having her meditations interrupted. “Oh, Roberts!” she exclaims, recognising the head gardener. “Orders? Oh, dear, no! I never give any when you startle me in this way—just when I am so busy thinking.” The old man begins to apologise. “No, don’t do that, only don’t bother me again.” The old man touches his hat and turns to go away. “Oh, stay, Roberts, I forgot,” exclaims the young lady. “I have one very particular order to give. There is a quantity of chickweed and groundsel growing up in the violet-beds. On no account have it weeded out—not the least morsel of it—my canaries are quite pining for some. Now don’t grumble, Roberts, but go away as fast as you can, and leave me to finish my thinking.”
Her “thinking,” however, seems doomed not to be finished this morning, for she hears the iron gate leading from the high road swing back and a firm quick footstep on the gravel.
What is the matter with Brownie’s collar that at this particular moment Lettice must stoop down and adjust it so carefully with both hands? Brownie wags his tail gratefully, still keeping firm hold of his mistress’s basket. A kind frank voice at Lettice’s side wishes her “Good morning” and extends a hand towards her. Lettice looking up, and returning the “Good morning” in somewhat demure tones, sees a tall well-made young man of about eight-and-twenty or thirty—a man with no particular beauty in face or figure, as plainly as words can speak, “I am doing my duty honestly and well, and there is nothing in this world worth the trouble of a lie.”
Lettice does not take the offered hand; she is still (on her knees now) busy manipulating Brownie’s collar.
“Brownie’s curls are too long, Dr. Herron,” she begins apologetically; “they almost hide his new collar; I think I must cut them off; he is looking quite effeminate.”
“Can I be of any service, Miss Tremarten?” asks the doctor, entering into the spirit of the thing, and he too goes down on his knees and commences fumbling about Brownie’s curls, and then somehow their eyes meet, and Lettice’s flash and then droop, and then somehow their hands get very close together, and then Lettice jumps up flushing and shy and yet intent on fun.
“Dr. Herron,” she begins, “I have such glorious news to tell you—I mean I would have told you if everyone hadn’t been out and if you could have come into the house for half-an-hour’s chat.”
“This is the very place for glorious news,” says the doctor brightly, looking round at the pretty garden scene and the lovely mountain picture beyond, and then letting his gaze rest upon the sweet dimpling face in front of him.
“Oh, I can’t stay out here a moment longer,” exclaims Lettice, “I have such a world of things waiting for me indoors, so the good news must keep for another time,” and she makes a little movement towards the house.
“And I too,” says the doctor, again rising to the occasion, “have a world of things waiting for me—not indoors but out—and can only give you three minutes, Miss Tremarten, to hand over your list of sick poor people to be seen after, for I’m off for a long ride.”
Lettice is piqued, and determines to take good aim this time. “Oh, I can’t think about the poor people this morning,” she says, again adjusting Brownie’s collar; “they must find someone else to look after them now, for I’m going back with Aunt Rosamond to London for the season.”
“To London!” echoes the doctor in blank amazement, and Lettice, with her hair rippling over her eyes, enjoys his surprise. “To London, Miss Tremarten! Do you really mean to tell me that your father has given his consent to your going?”
“Oh no,” replies Lettice blithely, “no one has given any consent at present, for,” she adds slyly, “it hasn’t been asked; but of course I am going, because I have arranged it all in my own mind, and whatever I arrange always does happen.”
Dr. Herron stands a long three minutes silent and thoughtful. Lettice, intolerant of silence and thought in other people, however much she may like to indulge in both herself, commences a long lecture to Brownie on the “disgraceful manner in which he has conducted himself towards the rabbits and squirrels of late.” Brownie, all respect and submission, elevates one ear and lowers the other as the discourse goes on.
“Miss Tremarten,” says the doctor at length, drawing a full breath, “will you put aside fun for a little while and let me have a quiet five minutes’ talk with you? I have sometimes thought that such a contingency as this might arise, but certainly was not prepared to meet it so soon.”
“I can’t stay another minute,” interrupts Lettice positively. “Are you coming in for a game of chess with papa tonight? Goodbye,” and she holds out her hand.
The doctor takes the hand and keeps it.
“Lettice,” he exclaims, “you know perfectly well what I have to say to you.”
Lettice looks down demurely.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,
