"Good morning," said he at the door, breaking the spell of silence.

Inna, rising, wished to spring toward him, but he was gone.

"There, he's safe till two o'clock," sighed Oscar.

"Safe?" said Inna.

"Yes; booked with his patients, you know. Some say he has patients on the brain. I wish them joy of him."

"Don't--don't you like him?" she inquired falteringly.

"Do you?" asked the other, helping himself to an egg.

"I ought."

"Ought! I can't bear that word ought: 'tis dinned into my ears morning, noon, and night. Now, I tell you what we'll do: we'll fling 'ought' to the winds, and go a nutting expedition this morning."

In came Mrs. Grant.

"Well, Master Oscar, I should hope you'd go down to Mr. Fane's for lessons to-day," said she.

"I can't; I've a prior engagement," said he, as loftily as a mouth full of bread and b.u.t.ter and egg could utter it.

"And what's that, may I ask?"

"I've made a promise to a lady to go elsewhere."

"Oh, Oscar! never mind me; you ought to do your lessons, you know."

"I thought we flung that horrid word to the winds just now. There's no ought in the case; I had a holiday yesterday, and I mean to to-day. I mean to take Inna to Black Hole, and round through the woods, on a nutting expedition--so there!"

This last to Mrs. Grant.

"Very well, Master Oscar; I shall have to set the doctor on to you again. I hope, Miss Inna, you'll be a good little influence with him and teach him to obey his uncle."

Oscar laughed, pushed back his plate, and left the table. "Now, Inna, run and put on your hat and jacket, and we'll be off," said he to the little girl.

"Go, dear," said the housekeeper, as the child hesitated. "I suppose he means all right for this once, but he must take the consequence;" and away went Inna for hat and jacket, wondering if it was right to go.

When she came down, Oscar showed her a packet of sandwiches in the nutting basket, which Mrs. Grant had cut for them to eat if they were hungry.

"She isn't a bad sort; her bark is worse than her bite," said Oscar of her, when the two were well on their way.

On and on--over stubble fields they went, till by-and-by they were taking a short cut through a carriage drive in Owl's Nest Park, as Oscar informed Inna. It was a pretty bowery walk, overarched with beeches and elms in all their autumn glory, and full of the clamour of rooks. Here they met an old lady in a wheel-chair, pushed by a page-boy--such a sweet sad-faced old lady was the occupant of the chair, with shining grey curls peeping out from beneath her black satin hood. She was wrapped in some sort of fur-lined cloak; and by her side walked two little dark-faced, shy-looking girls of seven, quaintly dressed in rich black velvet, very like two wee maidens stepped out of some old picture, and each wearing a hood similar to that worn by their aged companion.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "A DONKEY AND CART CAME DRIVING UP."]

"This is Madame Giche--spelt G-i-c-h-e--and her two grand-nieces; a queer party, all of them," said Oscar, still leading on. "This isn't her place: she can't live at her own place, they say, all about some trouble she's had; and so she took the Owl's Nest of Sir Hubert Larch, who never lives there, on lease."

"Are we intruding here?" inquired Inna.

"Oh, no; there is a right of way: that is, madame gives it, and people take it. Come on."

He had the grace to raise his hat to the party as they pa.s.sed them by, and anon they were out of the park, and on a well-worn road. Here the sound of wheels greeted them, and a donkey and cart came driving up--d.i.c.k Gregory charioteer, and a girl of about Inna's age seated in the bed of the cart behind him.

"Why, little friend," cried the boy, recognising Inna, "this is a happy meeting!" and down he sprang, and seized her hand with a boyish grip.

"How d'ye do, Willett?" this to Oscar, who returned the salutation.

"Now you must be introduced to Trapper. Here, Trapper," said d.i.c.k, turning to the donkey-cart.

"Don't be silly, d.i.c.k," cried the pretty little maiden. "You know I'm not Trapper: at least, only to you, who call me Gin and then Trap and Trapper. My name is Jenny;" and down she sprang to Inna's side.

"And I am Inna."

"Yes; d.i.c.k has told me your name."

"And how is your kitten?" Inna liked the pretty, free, fair-haired, fair-faced girl.

"Oh, first-rate, thank you, isn't she, d.i.c.k?" said she, appealing to her brother, who was just settling with Oscar.

"Oh yes! We'll just manage a morning of it in the woods; you can show your cousin Black Hole another time. Isn't what?" he questioned of his sister.

"Isn't Snowdrop first-rate?"

"Rather," returned he, with a nod at Inna, which made her blush and laugh.

"I'm glad she's well. And so you call her Snowdrop?"

"Yes; and what do you think of our donkey? We call him Rameses: that's d.i.c.k's choice of a name."

"He's a beautiful creature," returned Inna, stroking the animal's wise old head.

"Yes," replied d.i.c.k, "I'm a lover of old names, so I thought I'd go back to the Pharaohs. Not a bad idea, was it? though no compliment, I daresay, to the old fogies."

"No," laughed Oscar; "but never mind about compliments for dead and gone fogies."

"And what of the fogies of this generation?" inquired ready d.i.c.k.

"The same--never mind."

"But come, we must make hay while the sun shines. In with you, you two girls, into the cart," said d.i.c.k, which they did, Jenny helping Inna.

Then up sprang the charioteer, Oscar beside him; crack went the whip, and off they drove like the wind.

That nutting expedition was like a fairy dream to London-reared Inna; the lads showed her a squirrel or two, a dormouse not yet gone to its winter snooze, in its mossy bed-chamber. A snake wriggled past them, which made her shudder; frogs and toads leaped here and there in dark places. Then, oh, the whir and whisper of the autumn wind among the trees! the lights and shadows! Oh, for the magic hand of her artist father to make them hers for ever in a picture for her bedroom! But the delight of a morning's nutting must come to an end--so did theirs; the sandwiches demolished--share and share, as Oscar put it--they bethought themselves of dinner and the road leading thereto, so once more they were on their backward way, and parting company.

"Good-bye, mademoiselle!" cried d.i.c.k, as Inna stood at Oscar's side, after she had kissed Jenny, and the two had vowed a girls' eternal friendship. Then away went the donkey and cart, and our young people hastened home, just in time for dinner. A meal silent as breakfast was dinner, so far as they were concerned, for Mr. Barlow and the doctor kept a learned conversation high above their heads all the time--so Oscar said; and after it was over the boy vanished, n.o.body knew where.

As for Inna, she roamed in the orchard all the afternoon in a dream of beauty, eating rosy apples, followed by tea--she and Mr. Barlow alone--she making the toast and managing the urn: a living proof of what can be done by trying, so the surgeon told her. Then he and the doctor went out, and Inna crept out to the kitchen, to wonder with Mrs.

Grant where Oscar was, and what was keeping him.