“Who’s that?” said one, looking round him. “We are all here.” “House! House!” cried a deep hoarse voice, from without, and the blows on the door continued. “Tom! Tom!” screamed the landlady, Mrs. Fairclaw, who was a buxom widow, fat, fair, and fifty, “Tom! You idle vagabond! Don’t you hear! There’s some one knocking—if it’s a tramper, tell him this is no house for him.” Tom, with a knowing wink, proceeded to the door, and, in a few moments ushered into the warm parlour a tall man, who was so covered with snow, that it was difficult to make out what rank in life his appearance indicated. He cast a hurried and uneasy glance round him, as he entered the parlour, and then taking a chair in silence, he turned to Tom, and said in a tremulous voice, “Brandy, if you please.” “Shall I take your hat and dry it by the kitchen fire?” said Tom. “No,” replied the stranger. “I—I must not stay long.” So saying he turned his chair, so as to leave his face very much in the shade, and sat perfectly silent. “A rough night, sir,” remarked the young farmer. “Eh?—yes remarkably fine,” replied the stranger. “Fine?” “Oh—the—the—snow you mean. Yes, very rough—very rough, indeed—I beg your pardon.” The company looked very eagerly at each other, and then at the abstracted stranger in great wonderment and intense curiosity. Tom now entered with the brandy. The stranger eagerly clutched the little pewter measure in which it was brought and toss’d off its contents at once. Then he drew a long breath, and turning to Tom, he said:— “Stay—I—I want to know—” “What?” said Tom, as the man paused a moment. “Is—Andrew Britton—still—alive?” “Yes,” said Tom. “And does he,” continued the man, “does he still live at the old place?” “The old Smithy?” “Yes.“ “Oh, yes; he lives there still.” “And—and is the squire—alive—” “Ah! To be sure.” “The smith,” said the young farmer, “still lives, sir, in his old place, part of which was burnt down ten years ago, or more.” “Ten years!” murmured the stranger. “Yes; the night there was a storm—” The stranger rose, saying— “Indeed! You talk of a storm as if there never had been but one.” So saying he threw down a shilling to Tom, and hastily left the room. The occupants of the parlour looked at each other in silence, and those who had pipes smoked away at such speed that in a few moments the room was full of dense blue vapour. CHAPTER IV. The Old Smithy.—A Lone Man.—The Alarm.—The Mysterious Conference.—Guilt and Misery. It was the hammer of the smith which had sounded on the night air, and the clangour of which had reached the ears of the frequenters of the snug oaken parlour of the Rose Inn. The Smithy was of great extent, for it occupied nearly the whole ground floor of the wing of the dilapidated mansion in which Britton resided.