“May I?” said the girl in an almost incredulous voice.
“You certainly may; I should like to have you.—Johnson, get down and open the carriage door for Miss Leeson.—But, oh, my dear, what is to be done with the dog?”
“Pilot will go home if I speak to him,” said Sylvia.—“Come here, Pilot.”
“Go home, dear,” said Sylvia. “Go, and knock as you know how at the gates, and father will let you in. Be quick, dear dog; go at once.”
Pilot put on a shrewd and wonderfully knowing expression, cocked one ear a little, wagged his tail a trifle, glanced at Lady Frances, seemed on the whole to approve of her, and then turning on his heel, trotted off in the direction of The Priory.
“What a wonderfully intelligent dog, and how you have trained him!” said Lady Frances.
“Yes; he is almost human,” replied Sylvia. “How nice this is!” she continued as the carriage began to roll smoothly away. She leant back against her comfortable cushions.
“But you will soon be cold, my dear, in that very thin jacket,” said Lady Frances. “Let me wrap this warm fur cloak round you. Oh, yes, I insist; it would never do for you to catch cold while driving with me.”
Sylvia submitted to the warm and comforting touch of the fur, and the smile on her young face grew brighter than ever.
“And now you must tell me all about yourself,” said Lady Frances. “Do you know, I am quite curious about you—a girl like you living such a strange and lonely life!”
“I am going to say something which may not be quite polite, but I am obliged to say it. I cannot answer any of your questions; I cannot tell you anything about myself.”
“Not because I mean to be rude, for in many ways I should like to confide in you; but it would not be honorable. Do you understand?”
“I certainly understand what honor means,” said Lady Frances; “but whether a child like you is acting wisely in keeping up an unnecessary mystery is more than I can tell.”
“I would much rather tell you everything about myself than keep silence, but I cannot speak,” said Sylvia simply.
Lady Frances looked at her in some wonder.
“She is a lady when all is said and done,” she said to herself. “As to poverty, I do not know that I ever saw any one so badly dressed; the child has not sufficient clothing to keep her warm. When last I saw her she was painfully thin, too; she has more color in her cheeks now, and more flesh on her poor young bones, so perhaps whoever she lives with is taking better care of her. I am curious, and I will not pretend to deny it, but of course I can question the child no further.”