he carried an
umbrella and a travelling-bag; and he asked his way to the best inn.
The station-master and the porter compared notes. One of them said:
"Evidently a gentleman." The other added: "What can he possibly want
here?"

The stranger twice lost his way in the tortuous old streets of the town
before he reached the inn. On giving his orders, it appeared that he
wanted three things: a private room, something to eat, and, while the
dinner was being cooked, materials for writing a letter.

Answering her daughter's questions downstairs, the landlady described
her guest as a nice-looking man dressed in deep mourning. "Young, my
dear, with beautiful dark brown hair, and a grand beard, and a sweet
sorrowful look. Ah, his eyes would tell anybody that his black clothes
are not a mere sham. Whether married or single, of course I can't say.
But I noticed the name on his travelling-bag. A distinguished name in
my opinion--Hugh Mountjoy. I wonder what he'll order to drink when he
has his dinner? What a mercy it will be if we can get rid of another
bottle of the sour French wine!"

The bell in the private room rang at that moment; and the landlady's
daughter, it is needless to say, took the opportunity of forming her
own opinion of Mr. Hugh Mountjoy.

She returned with a letter in her hand, consumed by a vain longing for
the advantages of gentle birth. "Ah, mother, if I was a young lady of
the higher classes, I know whose wife I should like to be!" Not
particularly interested in sentimental aspirations, the landlady asked
to see Mr. Mountjoy's letter. The messenger who delivered it was to
wait for an answer. It was addressed to: "Miss Henley, care of Clarence
Vimpany, Esquire, Honeybuzzard." Urged by an excited imagination, the
daughter longed to see Miss Henley. The mother was at a loss to
understand why Mr. Mountjoy should have troubled himself to write the
letter at all. "If he knows the young lady who is staying at the
doctor's house," she said, "why doesn't he call on Miss Henley?" She
handed the letter back to her daughter. "There! let the ostler take it;
he's got nothing to do."

"No, mother. The ostler's dirty hands mustn't touch it--I'll take the
letter myself. Perhaps I may see Miss Henley." Such was the impression
which Mr. Hugh Mountjoy had innocently produced on a sensitive young
person, condemned by destiny to the barren sphere of action afforded by
a country inn!

The landlady herself took the dinner upst