d by a
stranger who has stolen on us unawares. The stranger is a tiny, sleepy,
rosy old man, with a vacant pudding-face, and a shining bald head. He
wears drab breeches and gaiters, and a respectable square-tailed ancient
black coat. I feel instinctively that here is the landlord of the inn.

"Good morning, sir," says the rosy old man. "I'm a little hard of hearing.
Was it you that was a-calling just now in the yard?"

Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists (in a shrill voice,
adapted to our host's hardness of hearing) on knowing who that unfortunate
person is sleeping on the straw. "Where does he come from? Why does he say
such dreadful things in his sleep? Is he married or single? Did he ever
fall in love with a murderess? What sort of a looking woman was she? Did
she really stab him or not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole
story!"

Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank has quite done--then
delivers himself of his reply as follows:

"His name's Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He was
forty-five year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's his story."

My wife's hot southern temper finds its way to her foot, and expresses
itself by a stamp on the stable yard.

The landlord turns himself sleepily round, and looks at the horses. "A
fine pair of horses, them two in the yard. Do you want to put 'em in my
stables?" I reply in the affirmative by a nod. The landlord, bent on
making himself agreeable to my wife, addresses her once more. "I'm a-going
to wake Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He was forty-five
year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's his story."

Having issued this second edition of his interesting narrative, the
landlord enters the stable. We follow him to see how he will wake Francis
Raven, and what will happen upon that. The stable broom stands in a
corner; the landlord takes it--advances toward the sleeping hostler--and
coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if he was a wild beast in a cage.
Francis Raven starts to his feet with a cry of terror--looks at us wildly,
with a horrid glare of suspicion in his eyes--recovers himself the next
moment--and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectable
serving-man.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your pardon, sir."

The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both above his
apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection of Mrs.
Fairbank's inter