"There's the Farm, Mr. Franklin! Make
yourself comfortable for to-night, and come to
me to-morrow morning—- if you'll be so kind?"

"You will go with me to the fisherman's
cottage?"

"Yes, sir."

"Early?"

"As early, Mr. Franklin, as you like."

We descended the path that led to the Farm.

CHAPTER III.

I HAVE only the most indistinct recollection
of what happened at Hotherstone's Farm.

I remember a hearty welcome; a prodigious
supper, which would have fed a whole village in
the East; a delightfully clean bedroom, with
nothing in it to regret but that detestable product
of the folly of our forefathers—a feather bed;
a restless night, with much kindling of matches,
and many lightings of one little candle; and an
immense sensation of relief when the sun rose,
and there was a prospect of getting up.

It had been arranged over-night with
Betteredge, that I was to call for him, on our way
to Cobb's Hole, as early as I liked—which,
interpreted by my impatience to get possession
of the letter, meant as early as I could. Without
waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a
crust of bread in my hand, and set forth, in
some doubt whether I should not surprise the
excellent Betteredge in his bed. To my great
relief he proved to be quite as excited about
the coming event as I was. I found him ready,
and waiting for me, with his stick in his hand.

"How are you this morning, Betteredge?"

"Very poorly, sir."

"Sorry to hear it. What do you complain of?"

"I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin,
of my own inventing. I don't want to alarm
you, but you're certain to catch it before the
morning is out."

"The devil I am!"

"Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the
pit of your stomach, sir? and a nasty thumping
at the top of your head? Ah! not yet? It
will lay hold of you at Cobb's Hole, Mr.
Franklin. I call it the detective-fever; and
I first caught it in the company of Sergeant
Cuff."

"Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is
to open Rosanna Spearman's letter, I suppose?
Come along, and let's get it."

Early as it was, we found the fisherman's wife
astir in her kitchen. On my presentation by
Betteredge, good Mrs. Yolland performed a
social ceremony, strictly reserved (as I
afterwards learnt) for strangers of distinction. She
put a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean
pipes on the table, and opened the conversation
by saying, " What news from London, sir?"

Before I could find an answer to this
immensely comprehensive question, an apparition
advanced towards me, out of a dark corner of
the kitchen. A wan, wild, haggard girl, with
remarkably beautiful hair, and with a fierce
keenness in her eyes, came limping up on
a crutch to the table at which I was sitting,
and looked at me as if I was an object of
mingled interest and horror, which it quite
fascinated her to see.

"Mr. Betteredge," she said, without taking
her eyes off me, " mention his name again, if
you please."

"This gentleman's name," answered
Betteredge (with a strong emphasis on gentleman),
"is Mr. Franklin Blake."

The girl turned her back on me, and suddenly
left the room. Good Mrs. Yolland—as I believe
—made some apologies for her daughter's odd
behaviour, and Betteredge (probably) translated
them into polite English. I speak of this in
complete uncertainty. My attention was
absorbed in following the sound of the girl's
crutch. Thump-thump, up the wooden stairs;
thump-thump across the room above our heads;
thump-thump down the stairs again and there
stood the apparition at the open door, with a
letter in its hand, beckoning me out!

I left more apologies in course of delivery
behind me, and followed this strange creature
—limping on before me, faster and faster—
down the slope of the beach. She led me
behind some boats, out of sight and hearing-
of the few people in the fish ing- village, and
then stopped, and faced me for the first time.

"Stand there," she said. " I want to look
at you."

There was no mistaking the expression on
her face. I inspired her with the strongest
emotions of abhorrence and disgust. Let me
not be vain enough to say that no woman had
ever looked at me in this manner before. I
will only venture on the more modest assertion
that no woman had ever let me perceive it yet.
There is a limit to the length of the inspection
which a man can endure, under certain
circumstances. I attempted to direct Limping Lucy's
attention to some less revolting object than my
face.

"I think you have got a letter to give me,"
I began. " Is it the letter there, in your
hand?"

"Say that again," was the only answer I
received.

I repeated the words, like a good child learning
its lesson.

"No," said the girl, speaking to herself, but
keeping her eyes still mercilessly fixed on me.
"I can't find out what she saw in his face. I
can't guess what she heard in his voice." She
suddenly looked away from me, and rested her
head wearily on the top of her crutch. " Oh,
my poor dear!" she said, in the first soft tones
which had fallen from her, in my hearing,
"Oh, my lost darling! what could you see in
this man?" She lifted her head again fiercely,
and looked at me once more. " Can you eat
and drink?" she asked.

I did my best to preserve my gravity, and
answered, " Yes."

"Can you sleep?"

"Yes."

"When you see a poor girl in service, do
you feel no remorse?"