The main street of Launceston is entered under an ancient gateway. Scarcely another English town has such a picturesque and continental appearance. On the steep slope of the hill, clinging to its side, was the quaintest conceivable house—a long narrow range of gables, roof and walls encased in small slate-like mail armour. In front of the house is a narrow terrace, with, at one end, a sort of summer-house, furnished with fireplace and chimney. Below this terrace the rock falls abruptly to the valley. The foundations of the houses in the street above are higher than the tops of the chimneys of ’Dolbeare,’ as this picturesque old house was called. In Dolbeare lived the Trampleasures, as they called themselves; Tramplaras, as the world called them. Herring knew little of Launceston, and he had some difficulty in finding the house. The door opened to them, and they were introduced into a hall, with stairs branching off on either side. Then a stout red-faced man, with perfectly white hair, burst out of the adjoining room, with a noisy shout of ’Oh, here you are at last! Come to my arms, Cousin Strange.’ Mirelle drew back before the coarse man. ’I say,’ pursued he with effusion, ’what’s your pet name, darling? Let’s be cosy and familiar at starting. What are you? Mirrie? Rellie?’ Mirelle turned to ice. ’You have mistaken the person,’ she said. ’I am no cousin. I have no other name than that of Countess Mirelle Garcia de Cantalejo. I have come here till my affairs are settled, and then I shall go elsewhere. I pray let this be understood from the outset. I am not a Strange, and we are not relations.’ The old man stood open-eyed and open-mouthed without speaking, and then burst into a roar of laughter, which made his face blaze a fierce red, horrible against the snow of his hair and whiskers. His eyes were black, with a cunning twinkle in them. His hands were large, the fingers short and fat, the palms very wide. Altogether a repulsive old man. to whom the hoar head was no crown of glory, but he a dishonour to hoar hairs. Mirelle contemplated him with undisguised aversion. Then she turned to Herring and said, ’I cannot lodge with this person. Take me back to the Battishills.’ Herring did not know what answer to make. ’Pray, who are you?’ asked the old man. ’Brother or lover of the lady? Perhaps a cousin whom she does condescend to recognise; a Parley-vous Mossou, hey?’ ’My name is Herring,’ said the young man, gravely. ’Mr. Battishill is ill, and Miss Battishill cannot leave her father. Consequently they asked me to escort the Countess to Launceston.’ ’The Countess!’ exclaimed Mr. Tramplara. ’Oh, Ginger! a live Countess in the house. Lord! the little rooms won’t contain her. We must throw out bow windows. Come here, Orange, come here, Polly, and see a live Countess.’