“Nothing.  I don’t see him bring himself in, you know.  But he’ll do.  He’ll have enough by and by, Dame Nettley.  I know what stuff he’s of.”

“Yes, but no stuff’ll last without help,” said Mrs. Nettley, taking her cakes off the griddle and piling them up carefully.  “Now I’m all ready, George, and you’re standing there —­ it’s always the way —­ and before you can mount those three pair of stairs and down again, these’ll be cold.  Do go, George; Mr. Landholm likes his cakes hot —­ I’ll have another plateful ready before you’ll be here; and then they’re good for nothing but to throw away.”

“That’s what I think,” said Mr. Inchbald; “but I’ll bring him down if I can, to do what you like with ’em —­ only I must see first what this knocking wants at the front door.”

“And left this one open too!” —­ said Mrs. Nettley, —­ “and now the whole house’ll be full of smoke and everything —­ Well! —­ I might as well not ha’ put this griddleful on.” —­

But the door having refused to latch, gave Mrs. Nettley a chance to hear what was going on.  She stood, slice in hand, listening.  Some unaccustomed tones came to her ear —­ then Mr. Inchbald’s round hearty voice, saying,

“Yes sir —­ he is here —­ he is at home.”

“I’d like to see him —­”

And then the sounds of scraping feet entering the house.

“I’d like to go somewheres that I could see a fire, too,” said the strange voice.  “Ben ridin’ all night, and got to set off again, you see, directly.”

And Mrs. Nettley turned her cakes in a great hurry, as her brother pushed open the door and let the intruder in.

He took off his hat as he came, shewing a head that had seen some sixty winters, thinly dressed with yellow hair but not at all grey.  The face was strong and Yankee-marked with shrewdness and reserve.  His hat was wet and his shoulders, which had no protection of an overcoat.

“Do you wish to see Mr. Landholm in his room?” said Mr. Inchbald.  “He’s just coming down to breakfast.”

“That’ll do as well,” said the stranger nodding.  “And stop —­ you may give him this —­ maybe he’d as lieve have it up there.”

Mr. Inchbald looked at the letter handed him, the outside of which at least told no tales; but his sister with a woman’s quick instinct had already asked,

“Is anything the matter?”

“Matter?” —­ said the stranger, —­ “well, yes. —­ He’s wanted to hum.”

Both brother and sister stood now forgetting everything, both saying in a breath,

“Wanted, what for?”

“Well —­ there’s sickness —­”

“His father?”

“No, his mother.”

Mrs. Nettley threw down her slice and ran out of the room.  Mr. Inchbald turned away slowly in the other direction.  The stranger, left alone, took a knife from the table and dished the neglected cakes, and sat down to dry himself between them and the coffee.