ept in at
the summons, and made tea for him. Her name, she said, was Marther
Sarer, and she lived out there, nodding towards the road and village
generally. Before Stockdale had got far with his meal, a tap sounded on
the door behind him, and on his telling the inquirer to come in, a rustle
of garments caused him to turn his head. He saw before him a fine and
extremely well-made young woman, with dark hair, a wide, sensible,
beautiful forehead, eyes that warmed him before he knew it, and a mouth
that was in itself a picture to all appreciative souls.

'Can I get you anything else for tea?' she said, coming forward a step or
two, an expression of liveliness on her features, and her hand waving the
door by its edge.

'Nothing, thank you,' said Stockdale, thinking less of what he replied
than of what might be her relation to the household.

'You are quite sure?' said the young woman, apparently aware that he had
not considered his answer.

He conscientiously examined the tea-things, and found them all there.
'Quite sure, Miss Newberry,' he said.

'It is Mrs. Newberry,' she said. 'Lizzy Newberry, I used to be Lizzy
Simpkins.'

'O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newberry.' And before he had occasion to say
more she left the room.

Stockdale remained in some doubt till Martha Sarah came to clear the
table. 'Whose house is this, my little woman,' said he.

'Mrs. Lizzy Newberry's, sir.'

'Then Mrs. Newberry is not the old lady I saw this afternoon?'

'No. That's Mrs. Newberry's mother. It was Mrs. Newberry who comed in
to you just by now, because she wanted to see if you was good-looking.'

Later in the evening, when Stockdale was about to begin supper, she came
again. 'I have come myself, Mr. Stockdale,' she said. The minister
stood up in acknowledgment of the honour. 'I am afraid little Marther
might not make you understand. What will you have for supper?--there's
cold rabbit, and there's a ham uncut.'

Stockdale said he could get on nicely with those viands, and supper was
laid. He had no more than cut a slice when tap-tap came to the door
again. The minister had already learnt that this particular rhythm in
taps denoted the fingers of his enkindling landlady, and the doomed young
fellow buried his first mouthful under a look of receptive blandness.

'We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale--I quite forgot to mention
it just now. Perhaps you would like Marther Sarer to bring it up?'

Stockdale