Eleanor beat us, of course.
She seemed in no way struck by the view from the top.

Indeed it was not particularly pretty.
"It's very flat about here," she said.

"There are no big hills you can get to the top of, I suppose ?" We confessed that there were not, and, there being nothing more to do, we ran down again, and went indoors.
Eleanor dressed for the evening in her usual peripatetic way, and, armed with a homely-looking piece of grey knitting, followed us down-stairs.
Her superabundant energy did not seem to find vent in conversation.

We were confidential enough now to tell each other of our homes, and she had sat so long demurely silent, that Matilda ventured upon the inquiry-- "Don't you talk much at your home ?" "Oh yes," said Eleanor--"at least, when we've anything to say;" and I am sure no irony was intended in the reply.
"What are you knitting, my dear ?" said Aunt Theresa.
"A pair of socks for my brother Jack," was the answer.
"I'm sure you're dreadfully industrious," said Mrs.Buller.
A little later she begged Eleanor to put it away.
"You'll tire your eyes, my dear, I'm sure; pray rest a little and chat to us." "I don't look at my knitting," said Eleanor; but she put it away, and then sat looking rather red in the face, and somewhat encumbered with her empty hands, which were red too.
I think Uncle Buller noticed this; for he told us to get the big scrap-book and show it to Miss Arkwright.
Eleanor got cool again over the book; but she said little till, pausing before a small, black-looking print in a sheet full of rather coarse coloured caricatures, cuttings from illustrated papers and old-fashioned books, second-rate lithographs, and third-rate original sketches, fitted into a close patchwork, she gave a sort of half-repressed cry.
"My dear! What is it ?" cried Matilda effusively.
"I think," said Eleanor, looking for information to Aunt Theresa, "I think it's a real Rembrandt, isn't it ?" "A real what, my dear ?" said Mrs.Buller.
"One of Rembrandt's etchings," said Eleanor; "and of course I don't know, but I think it must be an original; it's so beautifully done, and my mother has a copy of this one.

We know ours is a copy, and I think this must be an original, because all the things are turned the other way; and it's very old, and it's beautifully done," Eleanor repeated, with her face over the little black print.
Major Buller came across the room, and sat down by her.
"You are fond of drawing ?" he said.
"Very," said Eleanor, and she threw a good deal of eloquence into the one word.
The Major and she forthwith plunged into a discussion of drawing, etching, line-engraving, &c., &c.