“Have you any idea,” said I, at last, “whether there’s any story connected with that place where I slept last night?  I only ask,” added I, with a feeble grin, like the ghost of a smile that had been able-bodied once, “because I’m fond of hearing stories, and because, as you know, there generally is a legend, or something of that sort, related about old family mansions.”

“Well, sir,” answered the old man slowly, “I never heard nothin’; but then, you see, I never asked no questions.  We came here eight years agone, and then no one round remembered a tenant at the big house.  It’s been empty somewhere nigh twenty years, I should say,—­ to my own knowledge more than ten,—­and what’s more, nobody knows exactly who it belongs to:  and there’s been lawsuits about it and all manner o’ things, but nothin’ ever came of them.”

“Did no one ever tell you anything about its history,” I asked, “or were you never asked any questions about it until now?”

“Not particularly as I remember,” replied he musingly.

Then, after a moment’s pause, he added more briskly, “Ay, ay, though, now I come to think of it, there was a man up here more’n five months back, a Frenchman, who came on purpose to see it and ask me one or two questions, but I on’y jest told him nothin’ as I’ve told you.  He was a popish priest, and seemed to take a sight of interest in the place somehow.  I think if you want to know about it, sir, you’d better go and see him; he’s staying down here in the village, about a mile and a half off, at the Crown Inn.”

“And a queer old fellow he is,” broke in my host’s wife, who was clearing away the breakfast; “no one knows where he comes from, ‘cept as he’s a Frenchman.  I see him about often, prowlin’ along with his stick and his snuff-box, always alone, and sometimes he nods at me and says `good-morning’ as I go by.”

In consequence of this information I resolved to make my way immediately to the old priest’s dwelling, and having acquainted myself with the direction in which the house lay, I took leave of my host, shouldered my bag once more, and set out en route.  The air was clear and sharp, and the crisp snow crackled pleasantly under my Hessian boots as I strode along the country lanes.  All traces of cloud had totally disappeared from the sky, the sun looked cheerfully down on me, and my morning’s walk thoroughly refreshed and invigorated me.  In due time I arrived at the inn which had been named to me as the abode of the Rev. M. Pierre,—­a pretty homely little nest, with an antique gable and portico.  Addressing myself to the elderly woman who answered my summons at the housedoor, I inquired if I could see M. Pierre, and, in reply, received a civil invitation to “step inside and wait.”  My suspense did not last long, for M. Pierre made his appearance very promptly.  He was a tall, thin individual with a fried-looking complexion, keen