“I thought so,” said he, with an easy smile; “they 've had so many devices to frighten me.” “Come, Paul, old fellow, pour yourself out a tumbler of that red wine, while I cut you some of this ham; we 'll have plenty of time for talk afterwards.” The stranger accepted the invitation, but without the slightest show of eagerness or haste. Nay, he unfolded his napkin leisurely, and fastened a corner in one buttonhole, as some old-fashioned epicures have a trick of doing. He held his glass, too, up to the light, to enjoy the rich color of the wine, and smacked his lips, as he tasted it, with the air of a connoisseur. “A Burgundy, Davis, eh?” asked he, sipping again. “I believe so. In truth, I know little about these wines.” “Oh, yes, a 'Pomard,' and very good of its kind. Too loaded, of course, for the time of year, except for such palates as England rears.” Davis had now covered his friend's plate with ham and capon, and, at last, was pleased to see him begin his breakfast. We are not about to impose upon our reader the burden of knowing more of Mr. Classon than is requisite for the interests of our story; but while he eats the first regular meal he has tasted for two months and more, let us say a word or so about him. He was a clergyman, whose life had been one continued history of mischances. Occasionally the sun of prosperity would seem disposed to shine genially on his head; but for the most part his lot was to walk with dark and lowering skies above him. [Illustration: 068]