It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. “Do come and see the Michaelmas daisies at the end of the garden,” said Mr. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought.
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