“I shall not give much trouble,” said the stranger. “Would a pound a week satisfy you?” “I don’t want to hurt you,” said Mrs. Orley; “I will oblige you if you like for a pound a week.” If she had mentioned a sum, it would have been half that amount. But the stranger appeared pleased, and soon settled down, giving his name as Samuel Smart. Mrs. Orley decided that he was an author, for he was always writing. She was not surprised at his coming to Darentdale, for she knew that a good deal had been written about the place, and no doubt this man was making up a story in which Darentdale would figure to advantage. So, being a kind-hearted woman and very fond of an innocent bit of gossip, she told her lodger many interesting things about the inhabitants of the village. She offered to introduce him to the parson and the squire, but he declined her services in this respect, and only made a few acquaintances on his own account. He bought a good many books during his stay. He had a list of those which he wanted, and asked for them one at a time of Mr. Harris. He had none in stock, but could always get the volume in a day or two; so there was much coming and going between the bookseller and the customer, and however busy with his pen the stranger might be, he had plenty of time to spare for a talk with him. “He interests me exceedingly,” he said to Mrs. Orley; and she told him all she knew of Margaret and her grandfather. “Miss Miller is much more interesting than the old man,” said the postmistress; but Mr. Smart did not seem to think so, and she set him down as a confirmed old bachelor, with very poor tastes and little knowledge of beauty. Margaret was a great favourite of hers, and she was never tired of talking of her; but only once did she succeed in arousing anything like feeling in Mr. Smart. And that was when she had done something which she certainly ought not to have done. For, of course, Mrs. Orley had sworn before a magistrate that she would regard as sacred all letters that passed through her hands, and she did not doubt that letters included postcards; and yet one morning she not only read the whole contents of a postcard herself, but actually took the card to her lodger, and he read it too. It was a very insulting postcard, written anonymously, and addressed to Margaret Miller. “Read this, sir,” she said, handing it to him with the contents side up, and he read it before he turned it and saw the address. Mrs. Orley was frightened; she did not think her lodger could exhibit so much passion. “A coward!” he said, between his teeth, “and, of course, a woman. Men are bad enough, but no man could do such a mean thing as that. It takes a jealous, spiteful woman to insult another woman by means of an anonymous postcard. Let us throw the thing on the fire.”