"My good landlord seems to retire early; the whole place looks deserted. They are very early risers, and perhaps that is the reason. If you will allow me to pass, I will open the door and light a lamp in my little parlor. Even if you prefer to remain in the porch, it will look more cheerful." And, without waiting for her reply, he took a key from his pocket, and let himself into the house. Their voices had disturbed the owners of the cottage, and Phillis overheard the following colloquy: "Dear sakes alive! what a frightful storm! Is there anything you want, Mr. Dancy?" in Mrs. Williams's shrill tones. "Not for myself, Mrs. Williams; but there is a young lady sheltering in the porch. I should be glad if you could come down and make her a little comfortable. The floodgates of heaven seem open to-night." "Dear, dear!" in a still more perplexed voice; "a young lady at this time of night,--why, it must be half-after nine. Very well, Mr. Dancy; beg her to come in and sit in your parlor a moment, and I will be down." But Phillis absolutely refused to comply with the invitation. "I am not tired, and I am not a bit wet, and I like watching the rain. This is a nice little porch, and I have taken refuge here before. We all know Mrs. Williams very well." "She is a good creature, if she were not always in a bustle," returned Mr. Dancy. "There, the lamp is lighted: that looks more comfortable." And as he spoke he came out into the little hall. Phillis stole a curious glance at him. He was a tall man, and was dressed somewhat strangely. A long foreign-looking cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat, which he had not yet removed, gave him the look of an artist; but, except that he had a beard and moustache, and wore blue spectacles, she could not gain the slightest clue to his features. But his voice,--it pleased Phillis's sensitive ear more every moment; it was pleasant,--rather foreign, too,--and had a sad ring in it. He leaned against the wall opposite to her, and looked out thoughtfully at the driving rain. "I think I saw you coming out from the White House," he observed presently. "Are you a friend of Mrs. Cheyne? I hope," hesitating a little, "that she is very well." "Do you know her?" asked Phillis, in surprise. "That is a very Irish way of answering my question; but you shall have your turn first. Yes; I used to know her many years ago, and Herbert Cheyne, too." "Her poor husband! Oh! and did you like him?" rather breathlessly. "Pretty fairly," was the indifferent reply. "People used to call him a pleasant fellow, but I never thought much of him myself,--not but what he was more sinned against than sinning, poor devil. Anyhow, he paid dearly enough for his faults." "Yes, indeed; and one must always speak leniently of the dead." "Ah, that is what they say,--that he is dead. I suppose his widow put on mourning, and made lamentation. She is well, you say, and cheerful?"