“Sir,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I hope you slept well after what you suffered under the tempest of last night?”

“I assure you, sir, I never enjoyed a rounder night’s sleep in my life,” replied their guest; “and were it not for the seasonable shelter of your hospitable roof I know not what would have become of me.  I am unacquainted with the country, and having lost my way, I knew not where to seek shelter, for the night was so dreadfully dark that unless by the flashes of the lightning nothing could be seen.”

“It was certainly an awful—­a terrible night,” observed his host; “but come, its severity is now past; let me see you do justice to your fare;—­a little more ham?”

“Thank you, sir,” replied the other; “if you please.  Indeed, I cannot complain of my appetite, which is at all times excellent”—­and he certainly corroborated the truth of his statement by a sharp and vigorous attack upon the good things before him.

“Sir,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “we feel happy to have had the satisfaction of opening our doors to you last night; and there is only one other circumstance which could complete our gratification.”

“The gratification, madam,” he replied, “as well as the gratitude, ought to be all on my side, although I have no doubt, and can have none, that the consciousness of your kindness and hospitality are equally gratifying on yours.  But may I ask to what you allude, madam?”

“You are evidently a gentleman, sir, and a stranger, and we would feel obliged by knowing—­”

“O, I beg your pardon, madam,” he replied, interrupting her; “I presume that you are good enough to flatter me by a wish to know the name of the individual whom your kindness and hospitality have placed under such agreeable obligations.  For my part I have reason to bless the tempest I which, I may say, brought me under your roof.  ‘It is an ill wind,’ says the proverb, ‘that blows nobody good;’ and it is a clear case, my very kind hostess, that at this moment we are mutually ignorant of each other.  I assure you, then, madam, that I am not a knight-errant travelling in disguise and in quest of adventure, but a plain gentleman, by name Woodward, step-son to a neighbor of yours, Mr. Lindsay, of Rathfillan House.  I need scarcely say that I am Mrs. Lindsay’s son by her first husband.  And now, madam, may I beg to know the name of the family to whom I am indebted for so much kindness.”

Mrs. Goodwin and her husband exchanged glances, and something like a slight cloud appeared to overshadow for a moment the expression of their countenances.  At length Mr. Goodwin spoke.

“My name, sir,” he proceeded, “is Goodwin; and until a recent melancholy event, your family and mine were upon the best and most cordial terms; but, unfortunately, I must say that we are not so now—­a circumstance which I and mine deeply regret.  You must not imagine, however, that the knowledge of your name and connections could make the slightest difference in our conduct toward you on that account.  Your family, Mr. Woodward, threw off our friendship and disclaimed all intimacy with us; but I presume you are not ignorant of the cause of it.”