and assuming a grave and impressive air, "I have little mind
for jesting now. You know poor Jane Houseman,--a mild, quiet, blue-eyed
creature, she died at daybreak this morning! Her father had come from
London expressly to see her: she died in his arms, and, I hear, he is
almost in a state of frenzy."

The host and hostess signified their commiseration. "Poor little girl!"
said the latter, wiping her eyes; "her's was a hard fate, and she felt
it, child as she was. Without the care of a mother,--and such a father!
Yet he was fond of her."

"My reason for calling on you was this," renewed the Clergyman,
addressing the host: "you knew Houseman formerly; me he always shunned,
and, I fancy, ridiculed. He is in distress now, and all that is
forgotten. Will you seek him, and inquire if any thing in my power can
afford him consolation? He may be poor: I can pay for the poor child's
burial. I loved her; she was the best girl at Mrs. Summers' school."

"Certainly, Sir, I will seek him," said the landlord, hesitating; and
then, drawing the Clergyman aside, he informed him in a whisper of
his engagement with Walter, and with the present pursuit and meditated
inquiry of his guest; not forgetting to insinuate his suspicion of the
guilt of the man whom he was now called upon to compassionate.

The Clergyman mused a little, and then, approaching Walter, offered his
services in the stead of the Publican in so frank and cordial a manner,
that Walter at once accepted them.

"Let us come now, then," said the good Curate--for he was but the
Curate--seeing Walter's impatience; "and first we will go to the house
in which Clarke lodged; I know it well."

The two gentlemen now commenced their expedition. Summers was no
contemptible antiquary; and he sought to beguile the nervous impatience
of his companion by dilating on the attractions of the antient and
memorable town to which his purpose had brought him;--

"Remarkable," said the Curate, "alike in history and tradition: look
yonder" (pointing above, as an opening in the road gave to view the
frowning and beetled ruins of the shattered Castle); "you would be at
some loss to recognize now the truth of old Leland's description of that
once stout and gallant bulwark of the North, when he 'numbrid 11 or 12
towres in the walles of the Castel, and one very fayre beside in the
second area.' In that castle, the four knightly murderers of the haughty
Becket (the Wolsey of his age) remained for