rack hung a rich stock of hams and sides of bacon, curing in the smoke; an English clock stood in one corner, a tall cupboard in another, and a geranium in the window-seat.  Along the side opposite the door, and parallel to a dresser of shining crockery, ran a strong deal table.  Some high-backed chairs, a pair of brass candlesticks with snuffers, a book or two, a few old hats, and a lanthorn, on various pegs, completed the furniture of the place.

But Mr. Fogo’s gaze was riveted on two men who rose together at his entrance from the table where they were seated, side by side, at their tea.

Both tall, both adorned with crisp curls of black hair—­with clean-shaven, mahogany faces, and the gentlest of possible smiles, the twins came forward to greet the stranger.  So appallingly alike were they that Mr. Fogo felt a ridiculous desire to run away, nor could help fancying himself the victim of a disordered dream.

The Twins advanced upon him simultaneously with outstretched horny palms.  He noticed that even their dress was precisely similar, with the single exception that one wore a red, the other a yellow bandanna handkerchief loosely knotted about his throat.

[Illustration:  The Twins advanced upon him simultaneously.]

“You’m kindly welcome, sir,” said the Twin with the red bandanna; and the Twin with the yellow neck-cloth murmured “kindly welcome,” like an echo.

“Stop a bit,” interposed Caleb, “let’s do a bit of introducin’.  This here es Mr. Fogo, gent, as es thinkin’ of rentin’ Kit’s House, and es come for that puppos’.  That there es Peter Dearlove—­him wi’ the red neckercher; likewise Paul Dearlove—­him wi’ the yaller.  An’, beggin’ yer pardon for passin’ over the ladies, this es Tamsin Dearlove (christ’n’d Thomasina), dearly beloved sister o’ the same,” concluded Caleb, with a sudden recollection of having read something like this on a tombstone.

Tamsin curtseyed, and the two horny palms were again presented.  Not knowing which to take first,

Mr. Fogo held his umbrella between his knees and gave them a hand a-piece.

“I am afraid, Mr.—­” He hesitated with a suspicion that he ought to say “Messrs.”

“Dearlove,” suggested Caleb; “an’ reckoned a purty name, too.”

“I am afraid, Mr. Dearlove,” repeated Mr. Fogo, compromising matters by staring hard between the Twins, “that we have interrupted you.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Peter.  “Sit down, sir, ef you’m not proud.  Tamsin, bring a cup for the gentleman.  A piece o’ pasty, sir?  Tamsin es famous for pasties.”

Mr. Fogo, remembering that, with the exception of the mug of beer at the “King of Prussia,” he had not broken his fast since the morning, and seeing also that the hospitality was anxiously sincere, complied.  In a few moments both he and Caleb were seated before a steaming pasty.

Tamsin poured out the tea.  She was a full twenty years younger than her brothers, as could be seen notwithstanding their boyish look, which came from innocence and clean-shaven faces.  It was pleasant to see their almost fatherly pride in her.  Mr. Fogo noted it vaguely, but an inexplicable nervousness seemed to have overtaken him since entering the cottage.