"
"What name shall I say?"
"Sir Richard Isshaw; but she will not know the name."
He stands in the hall, looking about him critically; his man-servant,
still mounted, goes slowly back toward the roadway with his master's
horse and his own, where he remains in waiting. Presently, Sir
Richard Isshaw is shown into the farm parlour, very cool and full
of shadow, with great green plants on the broad recesses of the
open window, and bees buzzing about them from the outer world.
A young woman in deep widow's weeds rises as he enters, and makes
him one of those profound courtesies which were considered appropriate
for the fair sex to display to those in rank and honour in the good
old days when George was king. Surely a young woman still, despite
the fifteen years that have passed, with a young supple figure
and a pleasant unlined face. Eighteen years and fifteen only make
thirty-three, and one can scarcely believe in time's inroads looking
upon Sophie Pemberthy. The man cannot. He is surprised and he looks
at her through tears in his dark eyes.
"You asked to see Mr. Reuben Pemberthy," she says, sadly. "You did
not know that--"
"No, I did not know," he says, a little huskily; "I am a stranger
to these parts; I have been long abroad.
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