her leathern curtain Wych Hazel peered out, gazing at the new
world wherein she was going to seek her fortune.

'Spend the Summer at Chickaree, Mr. Falkirk?' said a voice
from the further end of the coach. Wych Hazel drew in her head
and her attention, and sat back to listen.

'I did not say I was going there,' said her guardian dryly.

'Two and two make four, my good sir. There's not even a sign
of a place of entertainment between Stone Bridge and Crocus,
and Stone Bridge you have confessed to.'

'You consider places of entertainment among the essentials
then?'

'Why, in some cases,' said the gentleman, with a suspicious
glance at Wych Hazel's brown veil.

'How long is it since you were there, Mr. Falkirk?' inquired
Mr. Kingsland's next neighbour.

The speaker was a younger man than Mr. Kingsland, and whereas
that gentleman was a dandy, this one's dress was just one
remove from that, and therefore faultless. About his face, so
far off as the other end of the stage, there seemed nothing
remarkable; it was grave, rather concise in its indications;
but the voice prepared you for what a smile declared,--a nature
joyous and unembittered; a spirit pure and honest and keen.
Even Wych Hazel's guardian softened at his look.