the Inn are most orderly. On the fine October evening on which we
follow Stephen Smith to this place, a placid porter is sitting on a
stool under a sycamore-tree in the midst, with a little cane in his
hand. We notice the thick coat of soot upon the branches, hanging
underneath them in flakes, as in a chimney. The blackness of these
boughs does not at present improve the tree--nearly forsaken by its
leaves as it is--but in the spring their green fresh beauty is made
doubly beautiful by the contrast. Within the railings is a flower-garden
of respectable dahlias and chrysanthemums, where a man is sweeping the
leaves from the grass.

Stephen selects a doorway, and ascends an old though wide wooden
staircase, with moulded balusters and handrail, which in a country
manor-house would be considered a noteworthy specimen of Renaissance
workmanship. He reaches a door on the first floor, over which is
painted, in black letters, 'Mr. Henry Knight'--'Barrister-at-law' being
understood but not expressed. The wall is thick, and there is a door at
its outer and inner face. The outer one happens to be ajar: Stephen goes
to the other, and taps.

'Come in!' from distant penetralia.

First was a small anteroom, divided from the inner apartment by a
wainscoted archway two or three yards wide. Across this archway hung
a pair of dark-green curtains, making a mystery of all within the arch
except the spasmodic scratching of a quill pen. Here was grouped
a chaotic assemblage of articles--mainly old framed prints and
paintings--leaning edgewise against the wall, like roofing slates in
a builder's yard. All the books visible here were folios too big to be
stolen--some lying on a heavy oak table in one corner, some on the
floor among the pictures, the whole intermingled with old coats, hats,
umbrellas, and walking-sticks.

Stephen pushed aside the curtain, and before him sat a man writing away
as if his life depended upon it--which it did.

A man of thirty in a speckled coat, with dark brown hair, curly beard,
and crisp moustache: the latter running into the beard on each side of
the mouth, and, as usual, hiding the real expression of that organ under
a chronic aspect of impassivity.

'Ah, my dear fellow, I knew 'twas you,' said Knight, looking up with a
smile, and holding out his hand.

Knight's mouth and eyes came to view now. Both features were good, and
had the peculiarity of appearing younger and fresher than the brow
and face they