they saw the house they had come for.

It was a place of shiftless poverty; of need, no doubt, but
not of industry; Wych Hazel was humbly begged to supply
deficiencies which ought not to have been. Inexperienced as
she was, she scarcely understood it. Nevertheless she was glad
when the visit was over and she could step out of the door
again. The clouds had not hid the sun yet, and she went
lightly on through the trees, singing to herself according to
custom, till she was near the stile; then she was 'ware' of
somebody approaching and the singing ceased. The glance which
showed her a stranger revealed also what made her glance again
as they drew nearer; it was a person of uncommonly good
exterior and fine bearing. A third glance would not have been
given, but that, as they came close, Wych Hazel received the
homage of a very profound and courteous salutation, and the
gentleman, presenting a branch of white roses, said with
sufficient deference,

'Earth, must offer tribute!--and cannot, without hands--'

And then passed swiftly on. Amused, startled, Wych Hazel also
quickened her step; wondering to herself what sort of country
she had fallen upon. It was ridiculously like a fairy tale,
this whole afternoon's work. The little barefooted guide, the
sick woman with her 'young goodness' and 'your ladyship,' now
this upstarting knight. There were the roses in her hand, too,
as much like the famed spray gathered by the merchant in
'Beauty and the Beast,' as mortal roses could be! But the
adventure was not over. As she reached the stile she heard the