latform for a moment bewildered
him. The station looked strange, and he fancied it lacked a certain kind
of distinctness. But that quality was also noticeable in the porters and
loungers on the platform. He thought it singular, until it seemed to him
that they were not characteristic, nor in any way important or necessary
to the business he had in hand. Then, with an effort, he tried to
remember himself and his purpose, and made his way through the station
to the open road beyond. A van, bearing the inscription, "Removals to
Town and Country," stood before him and blocked his way, but a dogcart
was in waiting, and a grizzled groom, who held the reins, touched his
hat respectfully. Although still dazed by his journey and uncertain of
himself, he seemed to recognize in the man that distinctive character
which was wanting in the others. The correctness of his surmise was
revealed a few moments later, when, after he had taken his seat beside
him, and they were rattling out of the village street, the man turned
towards him and said:--

"Tha'll know Sir Jarge?"

"I do not," said the young man.

"Ay! but theer's many as cooms here as doan't, for all they cooms.
Tha'll say it ill becooms mea as war man and boy in Sir Jarge's sarvice
for fifty year, to say owt agen him, but I'm here to do it, or they
couldn't foolfil their business. Tha wast to ax me questions about Sir
Jarge and the Grange, and I wor to answer soa as to make tha think
thar was suthing wrong wi' un. Howbut I may save tha time and tell thea
downroight that Sir Jarge forged his uncle's will, and so gotten the
Grange. That 'ee keeps his niece in mortal fear o' he. That tha'll be
put in haunted chamber wi' a boggle."

"I think," said the young man hesitatingly, "that there must be some
mistake. I do not know any Sir George, and I am NOT going to the
Grange."

"Eay! Then thee aren't the 'ero sent down from London by the story
writer?"

"Not by THAT one," said the young man diffidently.

The old man's face changed. It was no mere figure of speech: it actually
was ANOTHER face that looked down upon the traveler.

"Then mayhap your honor will be bespoken at the Angel's Inn," he said,
with an entirely distinct and older dialect, "and a finer hostel for a
young gentleman of your condition ye'll not find on this side of Oxford.
A fair chamber, looking to the sun; sheets smelling of lavender from
Dame Margery's own store, and, for the matter of that, spread by the