“Very well,” said I; “I’ll come to her instead.”

And the sprite vanished.

I think I shall go to-morrow, or perhaps next day.

Good-bye, sweet,
Your Emilia.

LETTER XIV.

Graysmill, October 23d.

You are a dear to take such becoming interest in my friend.  I have a great deal more to tell you about the lunatic, as you call him, who, by the way, is a great deal saner than either you or I.

Well, I went last Thursday.  It took me some time to find the cottage.  After much rambling I came upon it in the most secluded part of the Common, in a slight hollow.  It is a sort of double cottage, partly thatched, standing in a good-sized garden.  I marched through a rickety gate, and made for the house door.  The garden is one wild medley of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flowers, luxuriant still, in spite of the late season.  I was just bending over a chrysanthemum when I heard a startling “Hulloa!” and found myself accosted by the gardener, who stood, spade in hand, at the opposite end of the gravel walk.  He was in his shirtsleeves; his corduroy trousers were more picturesque than respectable; an enormous straw hat, well tanned and chipped by wear, was stuck on the back of his head.

“Hulloa!” he cried again.

I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without shouting, whether Miss Norton were at home.

“She is at home,” replied the man, “and who may you be?”

“Perhaps you will kindly tell her,” said I, making up by my civility for his lack of it, “that Emilia Fletcher has come to see her.”

Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat.

“God bless my soul!” he cried, rubbing the earth off his fingers, “so it’s you, is it?”

He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, so I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.

“Come on indoors,” said he; “let’s surprise them; Gabriel will be delighted,” and he set off at a trot, I after him.  He was not a grand runner.  I conjectured at once that his health is not good, and that he probably looks ten years older than he really is.  His hair is almost white, his face deeply wrinkled.

When we reached the cottage door, he pushed me gently in, and I found myself in what appeared to be a lumber-room.  There was a table in the centre covered with bundles, books, and papers, on the summit of which, precariously poised on the lid of a biscuit-tin, stood a jug and some glasses; piles of books lay on the floor; in one corner stood a stack of brooms, rakes, guns, fishing-rods, sticks, and umbrellas; and a marvellous medley of coats and hats, baskets, cords, etc., loaded a groaning row of pegs.

“Wait here,” said the old man, tilting the only chair in such a way that a Bible, a match-box, and a cocoa-tin filled with nails were safely deposited on the floor.  He then popped his head in at three several doors that opened on to the apartment (it was intended, I afterwards discovered, for the hall), and finally disappeared behind one of them which led straight on to a flight of stairs.  Suddenly I heard a scuffling, a sound as of some one coming down head foremost, and my friend appeared, book and forelock and all.