“I can’t say, miss,” he answered, with a slow smile, “a good deal would depend upon the meat.” “Well, I think you will find everything here all right. Mrs. Hogben’s son, Tom, is one of our gardeners, and you can come up in the morning with him. Good-evening to you!” Wynyard touched his cap, and she hurried off. He stood and watched her for a moment, the slim, straight-backed figure tripping up the village towards the tall grey church, which dominated the place. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hogben had looked him over from head to foot; her sharp, appraising eyes, rested with satisfaction on her lodger; taken, womanlike, by a handsome face, she said in a pleasant voice-- “So you’re the shover! My word, it do seem main funny, them ladies a-settin’ up of a motor--and last year they hadn’t as much as a wheelbarrow. Folks do say all the money--and it’s a lot--has gotten to Miss Parrett’s head, but she was always a terrible hard, headstrong old woman. Now, Miss Susan there is a nice friendly lady; all the place is main fond of Miss Susan.” “She seems--a good sort.” “Yes, and quite girlish still, and gay in herself, though well over fifty, and thinks nothing a trouble. You’ll be takin’ your meals here?” “Yes, with your permission, Mrs. Hogben.” “We don’t have many high notions of food--just plain and plenty, ye understand?” “That will suit me all right.” “I’ll give you your victuals in the little parlour,” and she opened the door into a small gloomy room, with dead geraniums in the window, a round table in the middle, a horse-hair sofa against the wall, and shells upon the mantelpiece. Evidently the apartment was rarely used; it smelt intolerably of musty hay, and was cold as a vault. “I think, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take my meals in the kitchen.” “All right,” she assented, “there’s only me and Tom. Now come away up, and I’ll show you your room.” The stairs, which climbed round a massive wooden post, were so narrow, so low, and so steep, that getting up was by no means an easy performance. “Eh, but you’re a fine big man!” declared Mrs. Hogben admiringly, “and somehow you don’t seem to fit in a place of this size; it’s main old too--some say as old as the Manor.” “Oh, I shall fit all right,” he answered, looking about his chamber. It was very low and scrupulously clean: the window was on a level with the bare boards, there was a wooden bed, with a patchwork quilt, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and a rush-bottomed chair. “I shall want a bath,” he announced abruptly. “A bath! Well, I never!” “Yes; or, if the worst comes to the worst, an old wash-tub.” “Oh,” reflecting, “I do believe Mrs. Frickett at the Drum has a tin one she’d lend--no one there wants it.” “I’ll carry up the water myself.” “Will you so? I suppose your box is at the house, and Tom will bring it down on the barrow. He will be in to his tea directly. Here he is,” as the sound of clumping boots ascended from below.