“Inn? ‘Ah! to be sure. But--if I might offer--really I wish you’d let us give you a bed here for the night. It would save trouble.” “On the contrary, I fear it would give trouble somewhat needlessly.” But Mr. Vissian insisted. “I will give directions at once. It must be supper time too. Mrs. Vissian has thought me busy, I fear, and has let the usual hour go by. Pray come into the sitting-room. It’s a year since I had any one to chat with over these things. It does me good; it does me good.” In the sitting-room supper was already spread--plain bread and cheese and draught ale. In an arm-chair, busy with sewing, sat the rector’s wife. She looked very youthful, and was indeed only five-and-twenty, having been married at seventeen. She was delicate, pretty, and a trifle troubled in face. “A friend of mine, dear,” said the rector, with an affectionate courtesy which pleased Kingcote, “who will remain with us for the night.” Mrs. Vissian looked just a little startled, but speedily put on pleasant smiles, and went away to make her necessary preparations. On her return the talk turned to the son of the house, Master Percy. “What did he mean,” Kingcote asked, “by telling me that the water of the Knight’s Well was enchanted, and that you must not drink more than one cup?” Father and mother broke into laughter. “You thought it an interesting local legend, no doubt,” said Mr. Vissian. “I am sorry to disabuse you. That enchantment is merely a sanitary precaution of my own. It’s not good for the child to drink much of the water this hot weather, so I hit on a device which has proved more efficacious than anything more literal would have done.” “But is there no legend connected with the well?” Kingcote asked. “Oh yes. The spring has doubtless been used for centuries. I will show you the story, after supper, in the county history. The marble basin was built five years ago by Mrs. Clarendon, the lady who lives at the house over there, which is itself called Knightswell.” “The lady,” Kingcote asked quickly, “whom I saw entering the gates?” “No, no,” corrected Mr. Vissian, with a smile, “Mrs. Clarendon is in London. That was Miss Warren, a--a distant relation.” “A very different person from Mrs. Clarendon,” put in Mrs. Vissian, in a low voice. The rector murmured assent. “It was Miss Warren, then,” Kingcote pursued, “whom I saw sketching a charming cottage in the lane not far away. What an exquisite spot that is!” “Wood End--yes. The trees there are all that remains of a forest.” “The cottage is vacant, isn’t it?” “Yes, has been for a year. A labourer and his family left and went to Canada; Mrs. Clarendon gave the poor people the means to emigrate, and we hear they are already doing well.” “No one whom Mrs. Clarendon helps fails to do so,” remarked the rector’s wife. “What maybe the rent of such a cottage?” Kingcote inquired carelessly, leaning back in his chair.