The Heiress of Wyvern Court.

by Emilie Searchfield.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE RAILWAY CARRIAGE--NEW FRIENDS.

"Well, little friend, and where do you hail from?"

The speaker was a merry-faced, brown-eyed boy of eleven, with curly brown hair--just the school-boy all over.

He had leaped into a railway carriage with cricket-bat, fishing-rod, and a knowing-looking little hamper, which he deposited on the seat beside him; then away went the snorting steam horse, train, people, and all, and out came this abrupt question. "Little friend" was a mite of a girl of nine, dressed in a homely blue serge frock and jacket, with blue velvet hat to match: a shy little midge of a grey-eyed maiden, with sunny brown curls twining about her forehead and rippling down upon her shoulders, nestling in one corner of the carriage--the sole occupant thereof until this merry questioner came to keep her company.

"I don't quite know what you mean," was the little girl's reply--a sweet, refined way of speaking had she, and her eyes sparkled with shy merriment, although there was a startled look in them too.

"Well, where do you come from, my dear mademoiselle?" and now the merry speaker made a courtly bow.

"From London--but I'm not French, you know," was the retort, with the demurest of demure smiles.

"No--just so; and where are you going?" One could but answer him, his questions came with such winning grace of manner.

"To Cherton--to uncle--to Mr. Jonathan Willett's."

"Cherton! why, that's not far from my happy destination. I get out only one station before you."

"Little friend" smiled her demure little smile again, as if she was glad to hear it.

"So you're going to Mr. Willett's--Dr. Willett he's generally called, being a physician," continued the boy, after glancing from the window a second or two, as if to note how fast the landscape was rushing past the train, or the train past the landscape.

"Yes; do you know him?" inquired the silvery tongue of the other.

"Oh yes; I know him!"--a short a.s.sent, comically spoken.

"I don't," sighed the little girl, as if the thought oppressed her.

"Then you'd like to know what he's like," spoke the boy, using the word like twice for want of another.

"Yes--only--only would it be nice to talk about a person--one's uncle, one doesn't know, be----" she did not like to say behind his back, but the faltering little tongue stuck fast, and the small sensitive face of the child looked a little confused.

"Ah! behind his back," spoke the boy readily. "Well, perhaps not; but you'll know him soon enough, I'm quite sure, and all about Peggy, too.

Peggy is the best of the couple," he added.

"Do you mean Mrs. Grant, my uncle's housekeeper?"

"Yes, that very lady--only, you see, I like to call her Peggy."

"Yes," returned the child, supposing she ought to say something.

"'Tis a farm, you know--jolly old place. Do you know that?"

"Yes--that is, I know 'tis a farm; mamma told me that. But I didn't know 'twas jolly; mamma said 'twas very pretty, and home-like, and nice."

"Ah, yes! just a lady's view of the place," nodded the boy approvingly.

"The farm is the best part of it all, and so you'll say when----"

"Perhaps we'll not talk about it," broke in "little friend" timidly.

"Well, you are a precise little lady not to talk about a farm, your uncle's farm, behind its back," laughed the boy.

"It's mamma's uncle," corrected the little maiden.

"Ah, yes! and your great uncle. Well, I thought he was an old fogey to be your uncle--I beg your pardon--old _gentleman_ I mean." He laughed and made a low bow, but his cheeks took a rosier tint at that real slip of his tongue.

"Well, suppose we talk about ourselves; that wouldn't be behind our own backs, would it?"

"Oh no!" came with a pretty jingle of laughter.

"Do you know my name? d.i.c.k."

"I thought so," replied the little girl.

"You did!--why?"

"You look like a d.i.c.k."

"Well, that's just like a girl's bosh--but still, you're right: I am d.i.c.k Gregory, son of George Gregory, surgeon, living at Lakely, next station to Cherton, where you get out, you know."

The girl nodded.

"Now, mademoiselle, what may your name be?" he asked, as the train carried them into the station with a whiz.

"Inna Weston."

"Inna: is that short for anything?"

"Yes--for Peninnah: papa's mother's name is Peninnah; and so, and so----"

"And so your father chose to let you play grandmother to yourself in the matter of names?"

"Yes," a little ripple of a word full of laughter--her companion was so funny.

"Now guess what's in this hamper?" was d.i.c.k's next proposition; "that's safe ground, you know, to guess over a hamper when the owner bids you,"

he added, by way of encouragement.

"A kitten." The train was carrying them on again, without any intruder to cut off the thread of their talk, except the guard, who put his head in at the window, and beamed a smile on Inna, as her caretaker; then he shut the door, and locked them in, and here was the train tearing on again.