She was half inclined to go back by the next train when she heard from the
stationmaster that they were gone to Guilford and would not be back till
late. But on second thoughts she determined to go on to Woodcote. Wilmot
would be there, at any rate. She would be able to find out how her aunt
was.

She had the warmest of greetings from the old cook and housekeeper, whom
she found at the linen press upstairs, carefully examining her store of
lavender-scented linen.

"Your aunt will be dreadfully disappointed, Miss Rosie. What a pity you
didn't come a little earlier! You could ha' gone to Guilford with them.
They've gone about the new greenhouse Mr. Tom is going to build. But come
down to the dining-room, my dearie, and I'll get you some tea."

"No, no; finish what you were about," returned Rose, settling herself in
the window-seat. The linen press stood on a wide landing that had a window
looking on the garden. It had always been a favourite spot with Rose; in
the deep-cushioned window-seat she had spent many a happy afternoon. The
linen press was of old oak, almost as old as the house. And opposite it
stood a finely-carved dower-chest with the date 1511 carved upon it. The
landing-floor, like the stairs, was of polished oak, and the wainscoted
walls had one or two old pictures on them.

Rose looked round her, feeling as she had never felt before the beauty of
her home. How fresh it was, and roomy! And what a delicious scent of
lavender came from the old linen press! "What are you doing, Wilmot? I
wish you would let me help you."

"No, thank you, my dearie. I've got what I wanted. It's this tablecloth