We may suppose that Walter’s simple meal was soon over; and growing impatient and restless to commence his inquiries, he descended from his solitary apartment to the little back-room behind the bar, in which he had, on the night before, seen mine host and his better-half at supper. It was a sung, small, wainscoated room; fishing-rods were neatly arranged against the wall, which was also decorated by a portrait of the landlord himself, two old Dutch pictures of fruit and game, a long, quaint-fashioned fowling-piece, and, opposite the fireplace, a noble stag’s head and antlers. On the window-seat lay the Izaak Walton to which the old man had referred; the Family Bible, with its green baize cover, and the frequent marks peeping out from its venerable pages; and, close nestling to it, recalling that beautiful sentence, “suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” several of those little volumes with gay bindings, and marvellous contents of fay and giant, which delight the hearth-spelled urchin, and which were “the source of golden hours” to the old man’s grandchildren, in their respite from “learning’s little tenements,” “Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.” --[Shenstone’s Schoolmistress.] Mine host was still employed by a huge brown loaf and some baked pike; and mine hostess, a quiet and serene old lady, was alternately regaling herself and a large brindled cat from a plate of “toasten cheer.” While the old man was hastily concluding his repast, a little knock at the door was heard, and presently an elderly gentleman in black put his head into the room, and, perceiving the stranger, would have drawn back; but both landlady and landlord bustling up, entreated him to enter by the appellation of Mr. Summers. And then, as the gentleman smilingly yielded to the invitation, the landlady, turning to Walter, said: “Our clergyman, Sir: and though I say it afore his face, there is not a man who, if Christian vartues were considered, ought so soon to be a bishop.” “Hush! my good lady,” said Mr. Summers, laughing as he bowed to Walter. “You see, Sir, that it is no trifling advantage to a Knaresbro’ reputation to have our hostess’s good word. But, indeed,” turning to the landlady, and assuming a grave and impressive air, “I have little mind for jesting now. You know poor Jane Houseman,--a mild, quiet, blue-eyed creature, she died at daybreak this morning! Her father had come from London expressly to see her: she died in his arms, and, I hear, he is almost in a state of frenzy.” The host and hostess signified their commiseration. “Poor little girl!” said the latter, wiping her eyes; “her’s was a hard fate, and she felt it, child as she was. Without the care of a mother,--and such a father! Yet he was fond of her.”