“Here we are at last,” said Ally, rousing herself, but speaking under her breath.
“Not yet; don’t you know the avenue is nearly a mile long? And don’t be frightened--remember what mother said.”
“Oh, not frightened,” she cried, but caught her breath a little. “Wat, I wish it was over, and we were going home.”
“So do I, Ally; but we must go through with it now we are here.”
“Oh, I suppose so. Will she be waiting at the door, do you think, or come to meet us? or will they tell us she is out, and offer to show us our rooms, and send us tea?”
“As they do in novels to the poor relations? I hope they will have better taste,” said Walter, growing red, “than to try the poor relation dodge with us. Oh, no! Mrs. Russell Penton knows that she is still more or less in our power.”
“I wish the first was over,” said Ally; “it may not perhaps seem so dreadful after that.”
And in this not ecstatic state of mind they drew up at the door, where the footman who came out looked with contempt at the shabby village fly. Mrs. Russell Penton had been walking, and was coming in at that moment, with a little chubby-faced girl by her side. Cousin Alicia and her companion took in every feature of the shabby fly, the old horse, the driver with his patched coat, as they came forward. It was almost more dreadful than what Walter called “the poor relation dodge,” though Mrs. Russell Penton was so civil as to come to the door of the fly, which was difficult to open, to receive her visitors. Already, before even they entered the house, their poverty had thus been put to shame. Neither of them, indeed, made much account of the little round-faced stranger who stood looking on, with her mouth a little open, watching their disembarkation. Nothing could look more insignificant than this little girl did. She might have been a little waiting-maid, an attendant, not smart enough for a _soubrette_; even Mrs. Russell Penton took no notice, did not introduce her, but left her standing as if she were of no importance, while she herself conducted Ally upstairs. Walter himself, in the confusion of the arrival, had nearly followed without thinking. But fortunately (which was a great satisfaction to him afterward) that habit of good-breeding which would not let him pass Crockford’s cottage without taking off his hat, inspired him to stand back, and let the little maid, as he thought her, pass in before him. She did this with a little blush and shy bow, and ran through the hall out of sight, as a little person in what was presumably her position would do; and Walter followed his sister upstairs. He felt that there was nothing to complain of in the matter of their reception, at least. They were not being treated as poor relations. Whatever might happen afterward, there was a certain soothing in that.