The Squire's little daughter rode her pony down the avenue. She stopped
for a moment at the gate, and the children at the other side could get a
good view of her. There were four children, and they pressed together
and nudged each other, and took in the small erect figure, and her
sturdy pony, with open eyes and lips slightly apart. The Squire's
daughter was a fresh arrival at Harringay. Her existence had always
been known, the children of the village and the children of the Rectory
had talked of her, but she had never come to live amongst them until
now, for her mother had died at her birth, and her father had gone to
live abroad, and Phyllis, the one child of his house, had been with him.
Now he had returned; Phyllis was twelve years old; the Hall was open
once more, full of servants and full of guests, and Phyllis Harringay
rode her pony in full view of the Rectory children. Phyllis had a
thick, rather short bush of tawny hair. Her eyes were of a grey blue,
her little features were short and straight, and her small face had many
freckles on it. She was by no means a pretty child, but there was
something piquant and at the same time dignified about her. She stopped
now to speak to Mrs Ashley, the woman at the Lodge; and the children
pressed a little nearer, and Ralph touched Rose, and Rose nodded to
Susie, and all three gazed at Edward with the same question on each pair
of lips and in each pair of eyes.
"Shall we introduce ourselves," said Susie to her brother. "Do say yes,
Ned; it is such an opportunity, and we are longing to know her. Do say
that we may speak to her now."
But Ned shook his head. "It is not manners," he said; "we must not push
ourselves on her. If, indeed, we could do anything for her it would be
different."
And just then, as if to help the children in their darling wish, the
white gates which led to the Hall refused to open at Phyllis's push, and
Ned and Ralph both rushed to the rescue.
"Thank you," said Phyllis, with a toss of her head and a smile in her
bright eyes. Then she paused and looked the boys all over. They were
sturdy little chaps, and Ned in particular had the brightest brown eyes
and the most honest face in the world.
"It is awfully dull, isn't it?" said the Squire's daughter. "I wonder
how any one can live in a place like this. Are there more than two of
you, and have you lived here always?"
"There are more than two of us," answered Ned, lifting his cap in the
most polite manner, "and we don't find it dull. Here are my two
sisters," he added; "may we introduce ourselves to you?"
"Oh, what a funny speech, and how nice it sounds!" cried Phyllis. "Four
of you, and all children! I haven't spoken to anything approaching a
child for a whole fortnight. If it wasn't for Bob here,"--she laid her
hand on her pony's mane as she spoke--"I believe I should lose my
senses."
"Well, you are all right now," said Ned, who certainly never lost his.
"Here's Susie, and she's dying to know you; and here's Rosie, and I do
believe she'd let her hair be cut short just for the pleasure of looking
at you. And here am I, at your service; and I think I can promise that
Ralph will do everything for you that boy could."
Phyllis's little face turned quite a bright pink. She glanced eagerly
at both the girls, then she looked at Ralph, and finally she laughed.
"Let's be friends," she said. "I don't know who you are nor anything
about you, but, oh, you are human beings, you are children! and I am so
glad--I am so glad."
As she said the last words she held out her hand to Ned. He clasped it,
and then let it drop, while the colour filled his own brown face.
"This makes all the difference in the world," said Phyllis. "What shall
we do? How are we to spend the afternoon? You don't suppose, you four,
that I'm going to lose sight of you, for if you do you are greatly
mistaken."
"What shall we do? Where shall we go?" cried Susie.
She came close to Phyllis and looked earnestly into her face.
Susie was a very pretty little girl; she had bright black eyes and a
quantity of curling black hair, and her cheeks were rosy like the soft
bloom of a peach, and her lips when she opened them showed pearly-white
teeth.
Phyllis looked right down into Susie's black eyes, and something in her
heart stirred, so that the colour suffused her face, and she had
difficulty in keeping back her tears.
"You are the Rectory children," she said; "please tell me what your
surname is."
"Hilchester," said Ralph, without a moment's hesitation. "Oh! you will
like father so much, Phyllis."
"And mother too," cried Rosie.
"Well, I tell you what it is," cried Phyllis. "I am going with you as
far as ever you'll take me. Take me to the wildest and highest place in
this neighbourhood, then I'll get off my pony and run; I want to run for
bare life; I want to feel wild and free; I want to forget that I'm the
Squire's little daughter, and that I've lots of money and grand dresses.
I want to be, oh, _shabby_! oh, _wild_! dancing, joyful, just as if I
hadn't a care in the world."
"Let's do it," cried Susie. "I know how; I know where. We'll take her
to the Friar's Mount, won't we, Ralph? Oh, you may ride, pretty little
Phyllis, but I don't think your pony can take you faster than we can
run, and when we get to the Friar's Mount you'll know what freedom
means."
"I should just think so," cried Phyllis. "I felt in prison until I saw
you all, and now I'm so happy."
She touched Bob's neck with her whip, and soon she was cantering down
the village street, the Rectory children following at her heels.
"Hullo!" cried a merry voice. "Where are you going, Phyl? Stop this
instant, and tell me."
The words came from Squire Harringay. He was standing on the steps of
the principal inn. He did not know his little daughter with her cheeks
on fire, her eyes bright, her mane of hair standing out from her pretty
neck, and four shabbily dressed but decidedly energetic children
following her.
"Don't keep me now, Dad," was Phyllis's answer. "I've found playmates,
and I am going to have a real good time. I'll tell you in the evening,
but not now."
The gay little party turned a corner and were soon lost to view. The
Squire turned to a neighbour--
"That's a pretty sight!" he exclaimed. "And who are those young
termagants who, to all appearance, have made my little daughter lose her
senses?"
"The Rectory children," was the response; "quite the wildest young imps
in the countryside."
"Phyllis will be a match for them," said her father, and he rubbed his
hands in a contented manner.