"The Abbey--that's Wail Abbey--eh? How far is it?" "How far will it be, Bill?" "'Taint a mile all out, ma'am." "Not quite a mile, Sir Jekyl." "A good ruin--isn't it?" asked the Baronet. "Well, they do say it's _very_ much out of repair; but I never saw it myself, Sir Jekyl." "Neither did I," said Sir Jekyl. "I say, my good fellow, you can point it out, I dare say, from the steps here?" "Ay, please, Sir Jekyl." "You'll have dinner put back, Sir--please, Sir Jekyl?" asked Mrs. Jones. "Back or forward, _any_ way, my dear child. Only I'll have my walk first." And kissing and waving the tips of his fingers, with a smile to Mrs. Jones, who courtesied and simpered, though her heart was perplexed with culinary solicitudes "how to keep the water from getting into the trout, and prevent the ducks of overroasting," the worthy Baronet, followed by Bill, stept through the porch, and on the ridge of the old high-road, his own heart being oddly disturbed with certain cares which had given him a long respite; there he received Bill's directions as to the route to the Abbey. It was a clear frosty evening. The red round sun by this time, near the horizon, looked as if a tall man on the summit of the western hill might have touched its edge with his finger. The Baronet looked on the declining luminary as he buttoned his loose coat across his throat, till his eyes were almost dazzled, thinking all the time of nothing but that handsome young man; and as he walked on briskly toward the Abbey, he saw little pale green suns dancing along the road and wherever else his eyes were turned. "I'll see this fellow face to face, and talk a bit with him. I dare say if one were near he's not at all so like. It _is_ devilish odd though; twenty-five years and not a relation on earth--and dead--hang him! Egad, its like the Wandering Jew, and the what do you call 'em, _vitæ_. Ay, here it is." He paused for a moment, looking at the pretty stile which led a little pathway across the fields to the wooded hollow by the river, where the ruin stands. Two old white stone, fluted piers, once a doorway, now tufted with grass, and stained and worn by time, and the stile built up between. "I know, of course, there's nothing in it; but it's so odd--it _is_ so _devilish_ odd. I'd like to know all about it," said the Baronet, picking the dust from the fluting with the point of his walking-cane. "Where has he got, I wonder, by this time?" So he mounted the stile, and paused near the summit to obtain a commanding view. "Well, I suppose he's got among the old walls and rubbish by this time. I'll make him out; he'll break cover." And he skipped down the stile on the other side, and whistled a little, cutting gaily in the air with his cane as he went.