She climbed through and stole along the orchard and up to the house.
Signs of mending were around the windows, in the shape of a new board
here and there in the shutters; but nothing further. She peeped over the
low sill, and there her eyes met those of an old man seated in a shabby
armchair, amid piles and piles of books. He had evidently been reading
while he smoked a long, clay pipe.
He was a fine old man with a splendid presence, his gray hair was longer
than is usual and a silvery beard flowed over his chest.
Halcyone at once likened him to Cheiron in the picture of him in her
volume of Kingsley's "Heroes."
They stared at one another and the old man rose and came to the window.
Halcyone did not move.
"Who are you, little girl?" he said. "And what do you want?"
"I want to know who you are, and why you have come here?" she answered
fearlessly. "I am Halcyone, you know."
The old man smiled.
"That ought to tell me everything," he said, gravely, "but unfortunately
it does not! Who is Halcyone?"
"I live at La Sarthe Chase with the Aunts La Sarthe," she said proudly,
as though La Sarthe Chase had been Windsor Castle--"and I have been
accustomed to play in this garden.
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