The hunt had gone by last week—­what a treat it would be if some one would meet with a little accident and be carried in here!

Behold, I heard a step at the back door, and the loud call of ‘Kitty!  Kitty!’ There stood Charlie, as usual covered with clay nearly up to the top of his gaiters—­clay either pale yellow, or horrid light blue, according to the direction of his walk.  He was beginning frantically to unbutton them, and as he beheld me he cried out, ‘Kitty! he’s coming!’ and before I could say, ‘Who?’ he went on, ’Old Newton.  His fly is working through the mud in Draggletail Lane.  The driver hailed me to ask the way, and when I saw who it was, I cut across to give you notice.  He’ll stay the night to a dead certainty.’

What was to be done?  A wild hope seized me that, at sight of the place, he would retain his fly and go off elsewhere for better accommodation.

Only, where would he find it?  The nearest town, where the only railway station then was, was eight miles off, and he was not likely to plod back thither again, and the village inn, five miles away, was little more than a pot-house.

No, we must rise to the occasion, Betsey and I, while Charlie was making himself respectable to receive the guest.  Where was he to sleep?  What was he to eat?  A daintily fed, rather hypochrondriacal old bachelor, who seldom stirred out of his comfortable house in London.  What a guest for us!

The council was held while the gaiters were being unbuttoned.  He must have my room, and I would sleep with Betsey.  As to food, it was impossible to send to the butcher; and even if I could have sacrificed my precious Dorking fowls, there would have been scant time to prepare them.

There was nothing for it but to give him the pork chops, intended for our to-morrow’s dinner, and if he did not like them, he might fall back upon poached eggs and rashers.

‘Mind,’ called Charlie, as I dashed into my room to remove my properties and light the fire, so that it might get over its first smoking fit,—­’mind you lock up the cat.  He hates them like poison.’

It was so long before the carriage appeared, that I began half to hope, half to fear, it was a false alarm; but at last, just as it was perfectly dark, we heard it stop at the garden gate, and Charlie dashed out to open the fly door, and bring in the guest, who was panting, nervous—­almost terrified, at a wild drive, so contrary to all his experiences.  When the flyman’s demands had been appeased, and we had got the poor old gentleman out of his wraps, he turned out to be a neat, little, prim-looking London lawyer, clean-shaved, and with an indoor complexion.  I daresay Charlie, with his big frame, sunburnt face, curly beard, and loud hearty voice, seemed to him like a kind of savage, and he thought he had got among the Aborigines.

After all, he had written to announce his coming.  But he had not calculated on our never getting our letters unless we sent for them.  He was the very pink of politeness to me, and mourned so much over putting me to inconvenience that we could only profess our delight and desire to make him comfortable.