away.
Mary Taylor had charge of the office that morning, while Miss Smith, shut up in her bedroom, went laboriously over her accounts.
Miss Mary suddenly sat up, threw a hasty glance into the glass and felt the back of her belt. It was‚ÅÝ‚Äîit couldn‚Äôt be‚ÅÝ‚Äîsurely, it was Mr. ¬ÝHarry Cresswell riding through the gateway on his beautiful white mare.
He kicked the gate open rather viciously, did not stop to close it, and rode straight across the lawn.
Miss Taylor noticed his riding breeches and leggings, his white linen and white, clean-cut, high-bred face. Such apparitions were few about the country lands. She felt inclined to flutter, but gripped herself.
“Good morning,” she said, a little stiffly.
Mr. ¬ÝCresswell halted and stared; then lifting the hat which he had neglected to remove in crossing the hall, he bowed in stately grace.
Miss Taylor was no ordinary picture. Her brown hair was almost golden; her dark eyes shone blue; her skin was clear and healthy, and her white dress‚ÅÝ‚Äîhappy coincidence!‚ÅÝ‚Äîhad been laundered that very morning.
Her half-suppressed excitement at the sudden duty of welcoming the great aristocrat of the county, gave a piquancy to her prettiness.
‚ÄúThe‚ÅÝ‚Äîdevil!‚Äù commented Mr. ¬ÝHarry Cresswell to himself. But to Miss Taylor:
‚ÄúI beg pardon‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚ÄîMiss Smith?‚Äù