lamps, two or three companions come in and sit
for half an hour, and we see their faces, and
perhaps talk with them and feel a sort of interest in
them), catching even a hint or glimpse of the
far-off drawing-room or fireside to which the
carriage waiting in the dark at the foot of the
steps will carry them. Then they are gone,
saying "Good night," and before morning we
are a hundred miles away and think it is all but
certain we shall never see them again.

This young girl talked over their tea-table of
the sad-looking gentleman who was with them
in the carriage.

"Such a soft, interesting face, papa," she
said; "as if he had suffered a great deal. I am
sure he had just lost his wife."

"I never noticed him at all, dear," said her
mamma.  No more she had.

"And sometimes I heard him sigh," the girl
on. "And his eyes were so soft. I am
sure it was his wife, papa."

"Something wrong in trade," said papa, from
his newspaper.

"No, no," said she. "I am sure of that.
He had no coarse bushy whiskers, or anything
of that sort. It was the most curiously
interesting face."

The young girl, who never met that face again,
was right. For there was this strange expression
of interest which attracted every one, more
or less.

Mr. Tillotson, who by some accident contrived
to keep his privacy, was "visité" in due course,
and required to show his papers. This process
repeated itself until the darkness was well set in,
and lamps flashed into the carriage at a station
about ten miles from St. Alans.

There the door was opened, and a gentleman
with a gilt-headed cane got in. This was a short
narrow gentleman, in a coat that seemed well
made, some thirty years ago, and a tall hat that
was fixed stiffly on his head; and under the brim
of the hat Mr. Tillotson saw a very pink Roman
nose. Mr. Tillotson saw these features, dismissed
them from his mind, and returned to Mr. Boswell,
with whom he had begun to converse absently
when company came in.

The new gentleman seemed a little uneasy at
this behaviour, for he looked from one dark
window-pane to the other, and danced his gilt-headed
stick up and down between his knees. He took
in Mr. Boswell resentfully, and at last spoke,
leaning over on his elbow on the cushion, as if
reposing on an ottoman:
"You have come down from town, sir, I
suppose? Any news up there when you left?"
Mr. Tillotson looked away from his book,
and said, "That he had not heard." He then
handed over his unopened bundle of papers.

"Ah, yes," said the gentleman, feeling about
his waistcoat. "Evening papers, I see. Did
not bring my glasses. I find this sort of light
ruins the eyes. I never read by it—never. When
I was once quartered at Walmer, lots of years
ago now, I was left for a week by myself without
a soul, sir, to play piquet with, and so I was
drivien in upon reading, and that sort of thing',
and read so hard, sir, that I impaired my sight,
sir—im-paired my sight. That's always the way
with young fellows. God Almighty gives us
these blessings without our asking for 'em, and
we abuse them. Going on to St. Alans?"

"Yes," said Mr. Tillotson. "We shall be there
soon, I suppose?"

"Why yes. Do you know, I'm going there
too. I live there—have lived there for many,
many years, and I suppose shall die there.
Perhaps be carried out to a corner of the cathedral,
feet foremost. What we must all, all come to,
you know. Dust upon dust. Clay, sir, that a
common fellow will turn up in the fields. Yes, I
suppose they'll give me a bed there. I know the
dean very well—Lord Rooksby's brother."

"Oh, you know St. Alans well?" said Mr.
Tillotson, anxiously closing his Boswell.

"I may say I am a St. Alans man. I was a
boy here," he added, with a touch of feeling,
"what-d'ye-call-'em'd it on the green, saw the
old cathedral every morning, and used to go
reg'larly to the anthem. We were all innocent
then, sir."

"And now," asked Mr. Tillotson, "is it a—a
stirring place—I mean as regards business?"

The gentleman smiled. "Well, I suppose it
is. Let us say it is. I always stand up for old
St. Alans. It's a deadly lively place; but after
the hums and storms of life, of which I have seen
many, Dick Tilney, sir, loves it still. By the
way, my name is Tilney, sir. If you are a
stranger in old St. Alans, and going to come
among us, I know the constitution of the place
—have its pulse, I may say, between my
fingers."

"Thank you—thank you very much. I should,
indeed, like to know something about the place.
I have reasons—perhaps important ones."

"Quite right—quite proper," said the other.
"Long, long ago, when I started in life, and was
fresher and perhaps more innocent than I am
now—though, God Almighty be thanked, I have
never lost the early implanted sort o' thing—at
my mother's knee, you know—I started as
equerry to H.R.H. the Dook of Clarence. You
recollect, the Sailor King and all that time, you
know. One of the best of England's line. He
always said, 'I like a man with reasons, and that
can give his reasons.'"

"I shall be here, I suppose, for a week," said
Mr. Tillotson, "and then——"

"Quite right—quite proper," said the other,
making his cane dance. "You will go to the
White Hart, of course—an old gentlemanly house
and, let me tell you, that is something in these
days of bagmen and snobs. As I have often
told Chinnery—my second cousin, the Right
Honourable Baron Chinnery of Chinnery, and all that
—God help us, we don't set up to be swells; for
be a man an innkeeper, or be he an ostler, or be
he a counter-jumper, or he he a—a——" And
hesitating here, having exhausted his illustrations,
he happily added, "a anything you like;