The boy put his hand upon the reins and stopped the cob. The cob was in that condition that the slightest touch sufficed to stop him, though he turned his head somewhat ruefully as if in doubt whether hay and corn would be within the regulations of a Temperance Hotel. Kenelm descended and entered the house. A tidy woman emerged from a sort of glass cupboard which constituted the bar, minus the comforting drinks associated with the _beau ideal_ of a bar, but which displayed instead two large decanters of cold water with tumblers _a discretion_, and sundry plates of thin biscuits and sponge-cakes. This tidy woman politely inquired what was his “pleasure.” “Pleasure,” answered Kenelm, with his usual gravity, “is not the word I should myself have chosen. But could you oblige my horse--I mean _that_ horse--with a stall and a feed of oats, and that young gentleman and myself with a private room and a dinner?” “Dinner!” echoed the hostess,--“dinner!” “A thousand pardons, ma’am. But if the word ‘dinner’ shock you I retract it, and would say instead something to eat and drink.’” “Drink! This is strictly a Temperance Hotel, sir.” “Oh, if you don’t eat and drink here,” exclaimed Kenelm, fiercely, for he was famished, “I wish you good morning.” “Stay a bit, sir. We do eat and drink here. But we are very simple folks. We allow no fermented liquors.” “Not even a glass of beer?” “Only ginger-beer. Alcohols are strictly forbidden. We have tea and coffee and milk. But most of our customers prefer the pure liquid. As for eating, sir,--anything you order, in reason.” Kenelm shook his head and was retreating, when the boy, who had sprung from the gig and overheard the conversation, cried petulantly, “What does it signify? Who wants fermented liquors? Water will do very well. And as for dinner,--anything convenient. Please, ma’am, show us into a private room: I am so tired.” The last words were said in a caressing manner, and so prettily, that the hostess at once changed her tone, and muttering, “Poor boy!” and, in a still more subdued mutter, “What a pretty face he has!” nodded, and led the way up a very clean old-fashioned staircase. “But the horse and gig, where are they to go?” said Kenelm, with a pang of conscience on reflecting how ill treated hitherto had been both horse and owner. “Oh, as for the horse and gig, sir, you will find Jukes’s livery-stables a few yards farther down. We don’t take in horses ourselves; our customers seldom keep them: but you will find the best of accommodation at Jukes’s.”