Accepting the invitation, Harry stepped into a neat little parlour, prettily but not expensively furnished.  Over the chimney-piece was a large drawing in water-colours of Flixworth Manor-house, and, on either side of this, photographs of Mr and Mrs Huntingdon.  What could it mean?  But for Harry every other thought was swallowed up in a moment by his attention being called to a little girl, about four years of age, who stole into the room, and stood for a while staring at him with one finger in her mouth, and her head drooping slightly, but not so much as to hide a pair of lustrous hazel eyes.  A neat and beautifully white pinafore was bound round her waist by a red belt, and a profusion of glossy brown ringlets fell upon her shoulders.  The old man started at the sight as if he had been shot, and then gazed at the child with open mouth and raised eyebrows, till the little thing shrank back to the side of the woman who had opened the door, and hid her little face in her apron.  "It's herself, her very own self," said Harry half out loud, and with quivering voice; "tell me, ma'am, oh, pray tell me what's this child's name!"