“This is no time,” said Walter, musingly, “for an examination of Houseman; yet it must not be forgotten.” The curate did not reply for some moments; and then, as an answer to the remark, observed that the conversation they anticipated with Aram’s former hostess might throw some light on their researches. They now proceeded to another part of the town, and arrived at a lonely and desolate-looking house, which seemed to wear in its very appearance something strange, sad, and ominous. Some houses have an expression, as it were, in their outward aspect that sinks unaccountably into the heart,--a dim, oppressive eloquence which dispirits and affects. You say some story must be attached to those walls; some legendary interest, of a darker nature, ought to be associated with the mute stone and mortar; you feel a mingled awe and curiosity creep over you as you gaze. Such was the description of the house that the young adventurer now surveyed. It was of antique architecture, not uncommon in old towns; gable ends rose from the roof; dull, small, latticed panes were sunk deep in the gray, discolored wall; the pale, in part, was broken and jagged; and rank weeds sprang up in the neglected garden, through which they walked towards the porch. The door was open; they entered, and found an old woman of coarse appearance sitting by the fireside, and gazing on space with that vacant stare which so often characterizes the repose and relaxation of the uneducated poor. Walter felt an involuntary thrill of dislike come over him as he looked at the solitary inmate of the solitary house. “Hey day, sir!” said she, in a grating voice, “and what now? Oh! Mr. Summers, is it you? You’re welcome, sir! I wishes I could offer you a glass of summut, but the bottle’s dry--he! he!” pointing, with a revolting grin, to an empty bottle that stood on a niche within the hearth. “I don’t know how it is, sir, but I never wants to eat; but ah! ‘t is the liquor that does un good!” “You have lived a long time in this house?” said the curate. “A long time,--some thirty years an’ more.” “You remember your lodger, Mr. Aram?” “A--well--yes!” “An excellent man--” “Humph.” “A most admirable man!” “A-humph! he!--humph! that’s neither here nor there.” “Why, you don’t seem to think as all the rest of the world does with regard to him?” “I knows what I knows.” “Ah! by the by, you have some cock-and-a-bull story about him, I fancy, but you never could explain yourself,--it is merely for the love of seeming wise that you invented it, eh, Goody?” The old woman shook her head, and crossing her hands on her knee, replied with peculiar emphasis, but in a very low and whispered voice, “I could hang him!” “Pooh!” “Tell you I could!” “Well, let’s have the story then!” “No, no! I have not told it to ne’er a one yet, and I won’t for nothing. What will you give me? Make it worth my while.” “Tell us all, honestly, fairly, and fully, and you shall have five golden guineas. There, Goody.”