Here Rose left her brother, advising him to
keep close under the hedge, while she softly opened a little gate,
and entered a garden, long and narrow, with carefully cultivated
flowers and vegetables. At the end was a low cottage; and going up
to the door, Rose knocked gently. The door was presently cautiously
opened by a girl a few years older, very plainly dressed, as if busy
in household work. She started with surprise, then held out her
hand, which Rose pressed affectionately, as she said, "Dear Anne,
will you tell your father that I should be very glad to speak to
him?"
"I will call him," said Anne; "he is just rising. What is--But I
will not delay."
"Oh no, do not, thank you, I cannot tell you now." Rose was left by
Anne Bathurst standing in a small cleanly-sanded kitchen, with a few
wooden chairs neatly ranged, some trenchers and pewter dishes against
the wall, and nothing like decoration except a beau-pot, as Anne
would have called it, filled with flowers. Here the good doctor and
his daughter lived, and tried to eke out a scanty maintenance by
teaching a little school.
After what was really a very short interval, but which seemed to Rose
a very long one, Dr. Bathurst, a thin, spare, middle-aged man, with a
small black velvet cap over his grey hair, came down the creaking
rough wooden stairs.
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