'Tis right enough, seeing the farm will be yours when she be put
under earth. I've had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom, and the
maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed. You'll find nought changed
up there. Maybe you'm tired and would like to go there now."

Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followed his
ministering angel along a passage, up a short creaking stair, along
another passage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfully blazing
fire. There was but little furniture, plain, old-fashioned, and good
of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case and a wall-calendar of four
years ago were about the only symptoms of decoration. But Stoner had
eyes for little else than the bed, and could scarce wait to tear his
clothes off him before rolling in a luxury of weariness into its
comfortable depths. The hounds of Fate seemed to have checked for a
brief moment.

In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as he slowly
realized the position in which he found himself. Perhaps he might
snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength of his likeness to this other
missing ne'er-do-well, and get safely away before anyone discovered the
fraud that had been thrust on him. In the room downstairs he found the
bent old man ready with a dish of bacon and fried eggs for "Master
Tom's" breakfast, while a hard-faced elderly maid brought in a teapot
and poured him out a cup of tea. As he sat at the table a small
spaniel came up and made friendly advances.

"'Tis old Bowker's pup," explained the old man, whom the hard-faced
maid had addressed as George. "She was main fond of you; never seemed
the same after you went away to Australee. She died 'bout a year
agone. 'Tis her pup."

Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness for
identification she would have left something to be desired.

"You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?" was the next startling proposition
that came from the old man. "We've a nice little roan cob that goes
well in saddle. Old Biddy is getting a bit up in years, though 'er
goes well still, but I'll have the little roan saddled and brought
round to door."

"I've got no riding things," stammered the castaway, almost laughing as
he looked down at his one suit of well-worn clothes.

"Master Tom," said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended air,
"all your things is just as you left them. A bit of airing before the
fire an' they'll be all right. 'Twil