Already the peace and quiet of the house, the homely comfort,
had done Hilary good; the thought of the long simple days to come, were
not so depressing as they had seemed when thought of that morning.
"Bless me, I'd forgotten, but I've a bit of news for you," Mrs. Boyd
said, coming in, a moment or so later; "the manor's taken for the
summer."
"Really?" Pauline cried, "why it's been empty for ever and ever so
long."
The manor was an old rambling stone house, standing a little back from
a bit of sandy beach, that jutted out into the lake about a mile from
The Maples. It was a pleasant place, with a tiny grove of its own, and
good-sized garden, which, year after year, in spite of neglect, was
bright with old-fashioned hardy annuals planted long ago, when the
manor had been something more than an old neglected house, at the mercy
of a chance tenant.
"Just a father and daughter. They've got old Betsy Todd to look after
them," Mrs. Boyd went on. "The girl's about your age, Hilary. You
wasn't looking to find company of that sort so near, was you?"
Hilary looked interested. "No," she answered. "But, after all, the
manor's a mile away."
"Oh, she's back and forth every day--for milk, or one thing or another;
she's terribly interested in the farm; father's taken a great notion to
her.
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