The birds were taken by surprise next morning. Long before Mr.
Falkirk was up, before the house was fairly astir with
servants, there was a new voice in their concert; one almost
as busy and musical as their own. Reo Hartshorne--the sturdy
gardener and lodge-keeper--thought so, listening with wonder to
hear what a change it made. Wych Hazel had found him out
planting flowers for her, and with his hand taken in both hers
had finished the half-begun recognition of last night. Now she
stood watching him as he plied his spade, refreshing his
labour with a very streamlet of talk, flitting round him and
plucking flowers like a humming-bird supplied with fingers.
The servants passing to and fro about their work smiled to
each other; Mrs. Bywank came by turns to the door to catch a
look or a word; Reo himself lifted his brown hand and made
believe it was to brush away the perspiration. Another
observer who had come upon the scene, observed it very
passively--a girl, a small girl, in the dress of the poor, and
with the dull eyes of observance which often mark the children
of the poor. They expressed nothing, but that they looked.

'Good morning, child,' said Miss Hazel. 'Do you want me to
give you a bunch of flowers?'

'No.'

'What then?'

'Mammy sent me to see if the lady was come.'