He got out a notebook in which he was in the habit of writing down whatever came to him, but was shortly interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the message that Mr. Lestrange was in the morning room and wished to see him.

He followed the man and found Lestrange at the breakfast table with a young woman, very ordinary looking, except for her large soft, dark eyes, and—much to his unexpected pleasure—the little lady whose mare he had shod.

He advanced halfway to the table and stood.

“Ah, there you are!” said Lestrange, glancing up. “We’ve got to set to work, haven’t we?”

The fledgling baronet, except for his too favourable opinion of himself, in which he was unlike only a very few, was not a disagreeable young man and now spoke quite pleasantly.

“Yes, sir,” answered Richard. “Shall I wait outside until you are through with breakfast?”

He was afraid the servant might have made a mistake by bringing him so soon.

“I sent for you,” replied Lestrange curtly.

“Very well, sir. I have not yet heard whether the tools I sent on have been delivered, but there will be plenty to do in the way of preparation. May I ask if you have settled where I am to work, sir?”

“Ah, I had not thought of that.”

“It seems to me, sir, that the library itself would be best, that is, if I might have a good-sized table in it, and could roll up part of the carpet. When I had to beat a book I could take it into the hallway or just outside the window. Nothing else would make any dust.”

Lestrange had been wondering how to have the binder under his eye and yet not seem to be watching too closely. The family made little use of the library, and Richard’s proposal seemed just the thing.

“I see no difficulty in that,” he answered.

“I would need a little fire for my glue pot and polishing iron. There will be gilding and lettering too, though I hope not much—title pieces to replace, and a touch here and there to give to the tooling. No man with any reverence in him would dare more than just touch some of these delicate old gildings!”

The little lady sat eating her toast, but missing not a word. Though she had said nothing, she recognized him instantly and, puzzled, was wondering what a blacksmith could do in a library.

Richard noted that her great eyes—they were bigger than those of the tall lady—every now and then looked up at him with a renewed question, to which they seemed to find no answer. They were blue eyes—very dark for blue, and rather too round for perfection, but their roundness was at one with the prevailing expression of her face, which was filled with innocent daring, inquiry, and confidence. The paleness of it was a healthy paleness, with just an inclination to freckle. Her dark, half-scorched-looking hair was so abundant and rebellious, that it had to be all over compelled with gold pins. Its manipulation had neither beginning, middle, nor end. She ate daintily enough, but as if she meant to have a breakfast that should last her till lunch—when plainly the active little furnace of her life would want fresh fuel.