ordered unlimited supplies of brown paper and
vinegar, rum and water, pipes and tobacco, swore at his questioners,
and adjourned to his bedroom to await the coming of nightfall and
Sybilla Silver.

The short winter day wore on. A good conscience, a sound digestion,
rum and smoke _ad libitum_, enabled our wounded artist to sleep
comfortably through it, and he was still snoring when Mrs. Wedge, the
landlady, came to his bedside with a flaring tallow candle, and woke
him up.

"Which I've been a-knockin' and a-knockin'," Mrs. Wedge cried, shrilly,
"fit to knock the skin off my blessed knuckles, Mr. Parmalee, and
couldn't wake you no more'n the dead. And he's a-waitin' down-stairs,
which he won't come up, but says it's most particular, and must see you
at once."

"Hold your noise!" growled the artist, tumbling out of bed. "What's
o'clock? Leave that candle and clear out, and tell the young feller
I'll be down in a brace of shakes."

"I couldn't see him," replied Mrs. Wedge, "which he's that muffled up
in a long cloak and a cap drawed down that his own mother herself
couldn't tell him hout there in the dark. Was you a-expectin' of him,
sir?"

"That's no business of yours, Mrs. Wedge," the American answered,
grimly. "You can go."

Mrs. Wedge departed in displeasure, and tried again to see the muffled
stranger. But he was looking out into the darkness, and the good
landlady was completely baffled.

She saw her lodger join him; she saw the hero of the cloak take his
arm, and both walk briskly away.

"By George! this is a disguise!" exclaimed Mr. Parmalee. "I wouldn't
recognize you at noonday in this trim. Do you know who I took you for
until you spoke?"

"Whom?"

"Sir Everard himself. You're as like him as two peas in that rig, only
not so tall."

"The cloak and cap are his," Miss Silver answered, "which perhaps
accounts--"

"No," he said, "there's more than that. I might put on that cap and
cloak, but I wouldn't look like the baronet. Your voices sound alike,
and there's a general air--I can't describe it, but you know what I
mean. You're no relation of his, are you, Sybilla?"

"A relation of the Prince of Kingsland--poor little Sybilla Silver! My
good Mr. Parmalee, what an absurd idea! You do me proud even to hint
that, the blue blood of all the Kingslands could by any chance flow in
these plebeian veins! Oh, no, indeed! I am only an upper servant in
that great house, and would lose my pla