"There was a letter that came for Stephen before dinner to-day; he got it
when he came in, but it was lying here for an hour first. Perhaps it was
that as took him to Malsham; and yet that's strange, for it was a London
letter--and it don't seem likely as any one could be coming down from
London to meet Steph at Malsham. I can't make top nor tail of it."

Mrs. Tadman laid down her knitting, and gave the fire a vigorous stir.
She wanted some vent for her vexation; for it was really too provoking to
see Ellen Whitelaw sitting staring out of the window like a lifeless
statue, and not taking the faintest interest in the mystery of her
husband's conduct. She stirred the fire, and then busied herself with the
tea-table, giving a touch here and there where no re-arrangement was
wanted, for the sake of doing something.

The room looked comfortable enough in the cold light of the spring
afternoon. It was the most occupied room in the house, and the least
gloomy. The glow of a good fire brightened the scanty shabby furniture a
little, and the table, with its white cloth, homely flowered cups and
saucers, bright metal teapot, and substantial fare in the way of ham and
home-made bread, had a pleasant look enough in the eyes of any one coming
in from a journey through the chill March atmosphere. Mr. Whitelaw's
notion of tea was a solid meal, which left him independent of the
chances of supper, and yet open to do something in that way; in case any
light kickshaw, such as liver and bacon, a boiled sheep's head, or a
beef-steak pie, should present itself to his notice.

Ellen roused herself from her long reverie at last. There was the sound
of wheels upon the cart-track across the wide open field in front of the
house.

"Here comes Mr. Whitelaw," she said, looking out into the gathering dusk;
"and there's some one with him."

"Some one with him!" cried Mrs. Tadman. "Why, my goodness, who can that
be?"

She ran to the window and peered eagerly out. The cart had driven up to
the door by this time, and Mr. Whitelaw and his companion were alighting.
The stranger was rather a handsome man, Mrs. Tadman saw at the first
glance, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in dark-gray trousers, a short
pilot-coat, and a wide-awake hat; but with a certain style even in this
rough apparel which was not the style of agricultural Malsham, an
unmistakable air that belongs to a dweller in great cities.

"I never set eyes upon him before," exclaimed Mrs.