best have gone to the lakes, as Sarah
proposed. This is a very dull holiday task you've set yourself, Miss
Horatia.'

'I never enjoyed any holiday so much in my life,' she protested stoutly,
and a look at her beaming, interested face confirmed her words.

CHAPTER IX.

A YORKSHIRE MIXTURE.

'Do you particularly want to walk home, Horatia?' inquired Sarah as they
were leaving Howroyd's Mill.

'No; I particularly don't want, considering that I have been driving
Shank's mare up awful break-neck steps and down precipices,' replied
Horatia, who had climbed up and down funny stairs and ladders in the
mill, which she called precipices.

'You are not going home, anyway, just now, for the mills are just coming
out, and the streets will be crowded, and it's luncheon-time; so you're
going to have a plain lunch with me, if you will honour me so far,' said
Mr Howroyd, and looked for a delighted acceptance from Sarah. But, to his
surprise, Sarah coloured and looked at Horatia doubtfully. 'I think
they'll be expecting us at home,' she said.

'Oh, will they? Can't we send a special messenger? I should so like to
stay, and I am so hungry.--You've no idea how hungry I am,' she said,
turning to Mr Howroyd with a merry laugh. 'Perhaps if you did you
wouldn't ask us to stay.'

Mr Howroyd laughed his cheery laugh. 'It would be the first time there
wasn't enough for any stranger at Howroyd's. That's not a Yorkshire
failing. We've always enough and to spare for any kind visitor, and
they're always sure of a Yorkshire welcome.'

'What's a Yorkshire welcome like? Is it different from any other kind of
welcome?' inquired Horatia slyly.

'Well, we think it's heartier and more sincere. You see, we don't go in
for show so much as they do down south; we say there's real old oak up
here, and French-polished deal down there.'

'Oh, what conceit!' cried Horatia. 'Are you hitting at me?'

'No; at me,' said Sarah a little bitterly.

'I'm hitting at myself; for old oak, you know, gets worm-eaten.--And
you're quite correct, Miss Horatia; that was boasting, and in very bad
taste. Let's hope my cook won't have burnt up the chicken and apple-tart
to punish me for it,' he said as he led the way into the cool, old
parlour of the mill, with its wainscoted walls and old-fashioned
furniture.

Horatia sat down in a rocking-chair, and gave a sigh of satisfaction. 'I
feel I deserve a rest. I've done a good day's work this morning. I'm
afraid