“He hadn’t time, bairn:  he was gone in a minute, was your father.  He had been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would like either o’ ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him.  He began again with a bit of a heaviness in his head the next day —­ that is, a fortnight sin’ —­ and he went to sleep and niver wakened:  he wor a’most stark when your brother went into t’ chamber and fand him.  Ah, childer! that’s t’ last o’ t’ old stock —­ for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to them ’at’s gone; for all your mother wor mich i’ your way, and a’most as book-learned.  She wor the pictur’ o’ ye, Mary:  Diana is more like your father.”

I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant (for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference.  Both were fair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence.  One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing it; Mary’s pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth:  Diana’s duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls.  The clock struck ten.

“Ye’ll want your supper, I am sure,” observed Hannah; “and so will Mr. St. John when he comes in.”

And she proceeded to prepare the meal.  The ladies rose; they seemed about to withdraw to the parlour.  Till this moment, I had been so intent on watching them, their appearance and conversation had excited in me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched position:  now it recurred to me.  More desolate, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast.  And how impossible did it appear to touch the inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; to make them believe in the truth of my wants and woes —­ to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings!  As I groped out the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea to be a mere chimera.  Hannah opened.

“What do you want?” she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she surveyed me by the light of the candle she held.

“May I speak to your mistresses?” I said.

“You had better tell me what you have to say to them.  Where do you come from?”

“I am a stranger.”

“What is your business here at this hour?”

“I want a night’s shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of bread to eat.”

Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah’s face.  “I’ll give you a piece of bread,” she said, after a pause; “but we can’t take in a vagrant to lodge.  It isn’t likely.”

“Do let me speak to your mistresses.”

“No, not I. What can they do for you?  You should not be roving about now; it looks very ill.”

“But where shall I go if you drive me away?  What shall I do?”

“Oh, I’ll warrant you know where to go and what to do.  Mind you don’t do wrong, that’s all.  Here is a penny; now go —­ "